


The History of a Collingwood Waif

by AStitchinTime



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:42:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27371377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStitchinTime/pseuds/AStitchinTime
Summary: This time it is not Janey that goes missing, but Margaret.  A new beginning awaits Phryne, Janey and Henry in England,some canon, some canon divergent.
Relationships: Henry George Fisher & Phryne Fisher, Jane Fisher & Phryne Fisher, Phryne Fisher & Elizabeth MacMillan, Phryne Fisher/Other(s), René Dubois/Phryne Fisher
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

He stood at the door gazing at the two girls curled up together in the bed. He had absolutely no idea how to bring up children, that was his wife’s job, but she had stormed out after a huge row over money. He tried, god knows he tried, to bring home enough to feed them but he had his schemes, schemes he hoped would bring in the pounds, take them out of Collingwood to the more exclusive parts of Melbourne. Life wasn’t easy for a man with no trade except his wits, though they had let him down this time and he’d ended up using the money for food to pay a fine. He didn’t even have enough for a drink in the pub.

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Earlier that evening:  
“What do we do now?” the younger of the two girls tugged her sister’s hand, “Phryne, I’m hungry.”  
“Don’t worry,” Phryne pulled her sister close, “come on, let’s see what’s left in the kitchen.” They watched their father stomp off down the road knowing he would be heading to the pub, regardless of the lack of funds. When he came back, they expected him to be drunk and if they were in view, they would probably get a beating.  
There wasn’t much left in the kitchen, the end of a loaf of stale bread, the scrapings out of a tray where their mother had fried some fatty chops the previous evening. The last half decent meal they had had. Phryne cut the bread into two uneven but thick slices. She put a light to the sticks and paper in the fire grate and toasted the bread over the meagre flames then spread the fatty scrapings over it. It wasn’t particularly tasty but it filled up their empty stomachs and when they were finished, they tidied up so their father wouldn’t see they had been eating; he would expect them to have made something for him.  
“What’re we going to do, Phryne?” Janey cuddled up to her, “I mean if mumma doesn’t come back?”  
“Not sure, yet,” she kissed her sister’s fair hair, “we’ll go to school tomorrow, but you mustn’t tell that mum has gone away, they’ll try to put us in an orphanage.”  
She went to sleep knowing she had to find a way to feed her sister and herself, and protect her from their father. If they got up early, they could walk to school through the market, there might be some stuff dropped, there sometimes was. One day she had found an apple, it was the most delicious apple she had ever eaten, she and Janey had found a corner out of sight and taken turns taking bites out of the fruit.

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For the next few days, the girls avoided their father as much as possible. They went to school early through the market and picked up what they could, and on the way home they would scour the bins where waste had been thrown and found enough to make some kind of meal for all of them. They would leave something out for their father before escaping to bed and pretending to be asleep when he came home.  
They were in bed, Janey had finally fallen asleep after Phryne had told a story about pirates sailing the seven seas, when there was a sharp knock at the door. She expected it to be the police and when their father didn’t answer it, and the knocking got persistent, Phryne knew she would have to go and speak to the visitors. They would only come round the next day, and the day after that, or break down the door.  
“Miss,” the soldier in front of her took off his hat and smiled, “does Henry George Fisher live here?”  
“Who wants to know?” she jutted her chin out defiantly.  
“Captain Riley,” he stood to attention.  
“And if he does?” She put her hands on her hips.  
“I have some good news for him.” He grinned, he took an instant liking to this small but audacious child he saw in front of him.  
“PHRYNE!” Henry bellowed from the living room.  
“It’s a soldier, dad,” she gulped, preparing herself for a beating, “he wants to see you, he has good news for you, so he says.”  
Henry peered round the doorway and blinked in the dimly lit hallway. He’d managed to find enough money for a few beers and had been contentedly sleeping them off when the Captain knocked on the door.  
“Sir,” Captain Riley snapped a salute, “Henry George Fisher?”  
“What of it?” Henry grunted.  
“You take some finding,” he huffed, “seems, from what’s been found, you are the next Baron Fisher of Richmond upon Thames, in England, that is, sir.”  
“Me, a Baron?” he cleared his throat, “have we got any tea, child?”  
Phryne thought she might manage to make one cup with what they had left. Only their mother drank tea so it hadn’t been touched since she left, and she’d pinched a bottle of milk off an unsuspecting neighbour’s doorstep very early that morning, because Janey wanted a drink of milk.  
“Yes dad,” she swallowed, “shall I put the kettle on?”  
“Get on with it,” he growled and waved her away.

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The stove was still warm, embers clung to life and fired up when she threw on another chair leg. They were down to one and a half rickety chairs now, it had been the only way she had been able to light the stove. She set the kettle to boil, rinsed out the tea pot and cleaned a cup and saucer, it was her mother’s but she didn’t think she’d mind. Of course, it would be nice if she could find mum, tell her she was nobility now, but they had no way of finding her. Their Aunt hadn’t seen her and had offered to take the girls in when they told her she’d walked out. Mrs Prudence Stanley was the only person they had told that their mother had walked out, but Henry refused to let her take the girls.  
She found a little tray, seldom if ever used, and set out the teapot, cup and saucer, a mug for her father, and a little jug with some of the milk in. She wanted Janey to have some in the morning so they couldn’t have much.

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In the parlour, such as it was, Captain Riley looked around and wondered how they survived in this hovel. There didn’t appear to be a woman about the house and so far, the only other person he had seen was the skinny, underfed child who opened the door.  
He took out a bundle of papers and was going through the family line when Phryne took in the tray. Henry, she noticed, was scratching his head, struggling to take in what he was being told.  
“Stay, Phryne,” he grunted, “listen to what the Captain is telling us.”  
So, she poured the tea, sat on the floor and listened as Captain Riley told them how they were tracing families whose lines were apparently dying out because sons had died during the Boer Wars. It had taken ten years to find the last Baron Fisher of Richmond Upon Thames, England, but here he was.  
Phryne was transfixed, they were rich, from what she understood, they had a grand house thousands of miles away in a different country, she would have nice dresses, so would Janey, good food, as much fresh milk as she could drink. It sounded wonderful.  
“We shall arrange tickets on an ocean liner to take you to your new home,” Captain Riley put his cup down, “and advance you some money to help with …” he thought for a brief moment, “well something for your daughter, perhaps a new dress?”  
“There’s Janey too, sir,” Phryne dared to speak, “my sister, she’s in bed, asleep.”  
“Then Janey should have a new dress too,” he smiled. “Now, here is my card, so you can come to the office to collect the things you need, and the money,” he passed it between the two, then, “perhaps, Miss Fisher, now that you are The Honourable Miss Fisher, so is Janey, you would like to do that for your father, I can see you are a very responsible young lady.”  
“Yes, sir, I can do that, after school.” She nodded and grinned, eagerly, excited, full of wonder at the new life that seemed to be before her.  
“Two day’s time, my dear, that will give me time to put things in place.”  
“Show the Captain out, Phryne,” Henry murmured, still reeling from his good fortune. A life of luxury awaited him, no more dodgy dealings, or petty theft, and no sly grog - good wine, whisky … he fell into a contented sleep.

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Phryne showed the Captain out, took the tray into the kitchen and cleaned up. She thought, all the while, that she needed to see her mother, find her and tell her she was now a Baroness, if that was what a lady married to a Baron was called; if she couldn’t find her in the two days she had she would ask Captain Riley for a ticket for her and leave it with Aunt Prudence. She wanted to tell Janey but, Janey had a tendency to tell secrets, so maybe she would leave that until they went to the offices. So many things ran through her mind as she curled up with her arms around her little sister and drifted off to sleep, one of which being she hoped her father would start to be a proper father and not beat her at every opportunity.

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“This isn’t the way home, Phryne,” Janey trotted behind her two days later.  
“Got an errand to run,” Phryne pulled her close, “things are changing, Janey, gettin’ good.” She had planned what they would do that day, after seeing Captain Riley – they would go to Aunt Prudence’s house and tell her what had happened and ask her to use her influence on someone to find their mother. They would also need her help in buying new clothes ready for their journey, their adventure.  
“How, Phryne?”  
“You’ll see, it’s all good, Janey, I promise … her we are.” They stood outside a grand building – the town hall.  
“We can’t go in there,” Janey pulled her back.  
“Got to,” Phryne grinned, “got to see someone. Come on, don’t be scared.”  
Janey had got into enough scrapes with her elder sister over the years, Phryne was bold and daring, she was quiet – Smee to Phryne’s Captain Hook. She pulled back.  
“Janey, it’s alright,” Phryne stopped and put her arms round her shoulders, “there’s a man in here who has money for us …”  
“Oh Phryne, no …” Janey shook her head, images of things people had told her, of girls who had gone missing from the district.  
“Not like that, silly,” Phryne huffed, “dad’s a Baron, now, nobility, but we have to go to England - to a new house. This man, Captain Riley, came round the other night, he has all the papers, and he told me to come today and get tickets for an ocean liner and money for new dresses. See here …” she pulled the card from her pocket. “… and he’s here, you can’t work here if you do bad things.”  
The doorman was as reluctant to let them in as Janey was to enter, but on production of Riley’s card, and a message from him left that day he told them how to get to the office they were looking for.

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They were ushered into the office by a young woman who had obviously been told to expect them. She seemed kind and once they were sitting opposite Captain Riley she went out and swiftly returned with glasses of cold lemonade and a plate of biscuits, and tea for the Captain.  
“Now, Miss Phryne, Miss Janey,” he smiled, “I have tickets for you and your father for the Oriana next week …”  
“What about mumma?” Janey whispered.  
“We don’t know where our mother is, Captain,” Phryne explained, “but can we have a ticket for her, just in case? I was going to ask our Aunt, Mrs Prudence Stanley, to find someone to look for her – then she could come after us.”  
“Ah, I wondered, the other night,” he hummed, “I though perhaps she was out …” where he wasn’t sure but it was a reasonable explanation for her absence.  
“No, sir,” Phryne bit her lip, she hated admitting their mother had left them, “she and dad, well, they had a bit of a spat …”  
“I see,” he nodded, “well, a ticket would have to be bought for a specific ship, however, if your aunt comes to me when she is found then I can arrange her passage, if that would suit?”  
“I suppose so, it’s the best way?” Phryne frowned.  
“It is, I shall give you a letter to give to your aunt, and a copy of all the papers so she understands what is happening.”  
“Thank you, I thought she might help us buy our new clothes too, she’ll know where to go for the best for us.”  
“You seem to have quite a head on your shoulders, Miss Phryne, good sense,” he smiled and looked at Janey, “your sister is quite a remarkable young lady, Miss Janey.”  
Janey nodded still slightly scared of this man and the grand surroundings. She sipped her lemonade, quite the loveliest thing she had ever tasted, and wondered if she could have lemonade in their new home so far away.  
“Now, my dears,” Riley continued, handing Phryne a large envelope, “this is the paperwork you will want to show your aunt and also when you get to England, anywhere where you are asked for proof of your identity, of who you are. Here,” he handed her another envelope, “is some money for new clothes or whatever you think you need. There is money in the bank in England and the man that will meet you there will explain everything else. Do you need me to talk to your father again?”  
“No, sir,” Phryne shook her head, “he told me to see to it. He’s still a bit shocked …” by which she meant he had spent the past two days wrapping himself round bottles of beer.  
“I see, now, are you headed to your aunt’s now?”  
“Yes sir, it’s a tidy walk but we can make it.”  
“Nonsense, not with that money in your pocket, Miss Phryne?” He frowned and shook his head, thoughts of what would happen to two such sweet little urchins carrying a large amount of cash. Any amount of cash in fact.“I have a car standing by to take you where you need to go, be that your aunt’s or home.” Captain Riley stood up and called for his secretary. “The car will wait for you and take you home after you have seen her.”  
“That’s very kind of you, Captain, but Aunt Prudence’s chauffeur usually takes us home, and the neighbours are used to seeing him.” She shook her head. “Thank you, for everything,” she smiled, “and thank you for the lemonade and biscuits, they were lovely.”  
Captain Riley looked at the two ragamuffins in front of him, scruffy, underfed they may be, but they had been brought up with manners and, he thought, pride.  
“You are most welcome,” he shook their hands, “good luck, and if you need any more help please call, or come straight to the office, my secretary will be happy to help, or come and find me.”  
“Sir,” Phryne had a question that had been gnawing at the back of her brain, “has this happened a lot? Families losing men, I mean, have you had to find missing heirs for a lot of them?”  
“I have, my dear,” he nodded sadly, “war is a dreadful thing, I hope it is something you never have to experience.”

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Mrs Stanley was surprised to see her two nieces appear at the front door, but it was a welcome diversion from her son’s latest escapade at school, for which he had been sent home to ‘reflect on his behaviour’ yet again.  
“Phryne, Janey!” she gathered them to her ample bosom and kissed them on their foreheads, “what a delightful surprise!” She looked outside and saw the car driving off. “Who was that?” she frowned, she didn’t like the girls accepting lifts from strange men, she had heard things.  
“Captain Riley’s driver,” Phryne smiled, “here, you need to read this, Aunt P.”  
“Come in, come in … the parlour,” she ushered them through and called for milk and biscuits.  
While she read through the papers the Captain had supplied, the girls sat on the couch and waited. Janey wandered over to the piano and played a few notes, oh, how she wished she could learn – maybe she could now, maybe she could have lessons, in England. She looked up at Phryne and saw her smile and nod, almost as if she had read her mind, she had.  
“You can learn, now, Janey,” she went and sat by her, “I’m sure you’ll be much better than me.”  
“But you can sing, Phryne, you sing prettily.”  
“Maybe.”  
“Phryne?” Mrs Stanley called her over, “is this true, all this? Your father is a Baron?”  
“Yes, Aunt P, he is. He’s not quite taken it in, yet, that’s why I’m here. Captain Riley gave me money, for new clothes for me and Janey, and I think dad will need some new shirts, at least, but …”  
“… if you give him the money he will go out and celebrate …”  
Phryne hummed, “Please, Aunt Prudence, will you help me and Janey get some new dresses, and some things for dad. I know you think he doesn’t deserve them but if we are to present ourselves in England we should be nicely turned out, don’t you think?”  
“You, my dear niece, are such a wise child, so clever. But what about your mother?”  
“Captain Riley will hold a liner ticket for her, until she is found, then she can come and join us, but we are going next week …” Phryne sat next to her, “… Aunt P, I really want her to be with us, we miss her very much, but …”  
“Darling girls,” Mrs Stanley waved Janey over to join them, “I miss her too. But now we have to see to you and your new dresses, and shoes and … oh so much … I will see to finding someone to locate you mother and send her to you, after I have given her a piece of my mind.”  
Phryne giggled at that, she knew how it would be if her mother turned up, something along the lines of ‘how could you leave your babes to his mercy!’ Aunt P had her standards, and without Uncle Edward to stop her, her sister would feel about an inch tall.  
“Now, tomorrow, we shall tell the school you are moving, Miss Charlesworth will have to know, then we shall go shopping. I shall come for you in the car … around nine o’clock?”  
Phryne and Janey threw their arms round her neck, she really was the most wonderful aunt.  
“Girls,” she laughed, “now - dinner?”  
“Captain Riley gave us lemonade and biscuits …” Janey laughed, it was the most joyous she had been for days, over a week in fact.  
“I must meet him,” Mrs Stanley disentangled herself, “and thank him for looking after my darlings. Well, as you are full of lemonade and biscuits, I shall ask cook to parcel up some food for you all.”

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“We don’t need her charity,” Henry grunted when Phryne set out the dinner Mrs Stanley had sent.  
“It’s a kindness, dad,” Phryne huffed, “until we get sorted, with the Baron thing, an’ all. She’s going to take me and Janey for new clothes, like Captain Riley said, and I thought you might like some new shirts? Maybe?”  
“Well, at least we’ll be miles away from the interfering …”  
“Dad!” Phryne yelled, “don’t be mean! Aunt Prudence could have taken us away, but she didn’t, she’s helpin’ that’s all.”  
“Huh,” he filled his mouth with the chicken pie Mrs Stanley’s housekeeper had wrapped up.  
Phryne ignored him, and gave Janey a piece of the pie and some vegetables. “Eat up,” she urged, “I’ve saved some for tomorrow.”

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It was only when they were finally on the liner that Phryne had the time to think about what had happened. She had almost come to terms with being The Honourable Phryne Fisher, just, and her father being the Baron of Richmond (upon Thames, England) but the new luxury of pretty dresses, soft undergarments and food whenever she wanted, it was a lot to take in. Aunt Prudence had been wonderful when she took them shopping; she bought them, with the money provided, fine cotton underwear, pretty slips to go under their smart, and well-made dresses, skirts and blouses. They had stocking without darns and runs in them, shoes that didn’t pinch and coats that would keep them warm in the English winter, with hats to match – and gloves!  
“Phryne,” Janey twirled round, “look, Aunt Prudence must have bought these when we weren’t looking, new nightgowns, and here,” she lifted something from a trunk, “robes … Oh Phryne …”  
Janey’s joy was infectious, and even if their father continued to drink – albeit better quality whisky and wine – they could get through this. She would take care of her little sister until their mother was found.

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The voyage was long and Janey was a little seasick at the start of the journey, but with her sister’s help and advice from a lady who had children with her she managed to get over it. Phryne and she explored the ship from top to bottom, literally. They found the engine rooms and talked to the men shovelling coal into the boilers, the galley where they were given tastes of the upcoming meals, the Captain allowed them up onto the bridge and showed them how the ship was steered and how they found their way over the vast oceans. He also explained that there was a school running on the ship and they could attend lessons.  
“I rather think it might be a good idea, Miss Fisher,” he smiled kindly, “better than having to play catch up when your father finds a school for you in England. But, if you don’t want to, or your father doesn’t want you to, we have a pretty good library on board, that you could borrow books from.”  
Phryne considered this. Miss Charlesworth had persuaded their father to let her continue in her education, saying she was a bright girl and would be able to go further in the world than just being a maid in a wealthy household, and when their Aunt had taken them to see her and tell her why they were leaving school she had reminded her that a whole new world was opening up for her and she should take the opportunity with both hands. So, she decided they would give it a try, Janey wanted to anyway, but she wouldn’t go on her own.

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Janey was quite happy to follow the lessons being taught; being nearly three years behind her sister the level of learning was about right for her, and the teacher was happy to give her some work that was a little more of a stretch for her, but Phryne was bored. She could do the English easily and the arithmetic was a cinch, she was quick with numbers and calculating and very soon became bored. The teacher was a pleasant young woman and quite a good teacher, but Phryne was one of the eldest children there and needed something to test her quick brain. She caught her, one day, perusing the various menus for the meals.  
“Wondering what to try next, Miss?” she lifted one from the desk.  
“Oh, no, well, I was wondering why the menus are so different. Surely the cooks have enough to do …”  
“Well, I suppose it depends on which class you are. But, here, how about you try this … I want you to calculate the cost, per person, of each of the meals if the passage costs …” she reeled off imaginary fares for three different classes, gave her a prospective number of days for a voyage, then, after explaining percentages to her, gave her a percentage of each fare for laundry, wages and food,and number of passengers carried in each class, then left her to her work.  
It took her a couple of days, but she enjoyed the challenge, strangely. Her next challenge, once Miss Thompson found out she was going to start a new life in a grand house and without her mother, was to see to the finances of a grand house, the wages of the staff, grocery costs, stable costs …  
“Such a lot to think about, Miss,” Phryne sighed.  
“True, but without your mother you are the lady of the house and there will be much more than this to deal with.” Miss Thompson took her hand, “I know you can do this, Miss Phryne, I have faith in you.”  
“I wish I had faith in me,” Phryne sighed, “it’s not what I am used to.”  
“What are you used to?”  
“We lived in Collingwood, dad got the baron thing because the last of the line died during the Boer War, we’ve never had much, scrimped and saved … we don’t know where our mother is … I’ve done my best, recently, with Janey and help from our Aunt, mother’s sister … but …”  
“Phryne,” Miss Thompson sighed, “may I make a suggestion?”  
“Uh huh,” Phryne nodded.  
“I have recently left a post as a governess, I have references, but I have little for me when I return to England …”  
“You want a job?”  
“Well, it would be nice …”  
“Um, can I talk to my father,” Phryne chewed her lip, “maybe he would like someone to help Janey – and me, of course, get set in the ways of society …”  
Phryne didn’t know why she trusted this woman, but she did. Miss Thompson had been nothing but kind, when others would have sent her packing, she had seen a bright but frustrated student and really wanted to help her.  
“Sounds like a good idea, Miss Phryne,” she smiled and patted her arm, “now, how about those household expenses …”  
Phryne giggled and set to work.

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“Dad,” Phryne implored, “she needs a job, Janey needs a teacher and … and … I need someone to help me. Mum isn’t here and that means I will be the Lady of the house … won’t I?” the last she murmured almost weakly.  
Henry grumbled and huffed, but it would mean he didn’t have to do too much and she was right, she would be the Lady of the House. He had no idea how a noble house ran, he just thought he would give orders and stride about the grounds, shooting game and hosting extravagant gatherings. It wasn’t that he was uneducated it was just that he had been born to a soldier, become a soldier in the Boer War, found a pretty lass and married her. After that it was all just girls and arguments about not bringing in a living wage, and drinking … yes, Phryne, his clever little girl was right, he would leave her to it.  
“Seems like you are in charge, Phryne,” he slurred, “I’ll leave you to it.”  
And so, Phryne Fisher – the Honourable Phryne Fisher, became, at the age of eleven years and eight months, the Chatelaine of Buttonleigh Manor, in Somerset, England.

She took charge, as only she could, as only the way she saw she should … strong and proud.  
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“How do I greet them, Miss Thompson?” Phryne whispered as she alighted from the carriage.  
“Politely, my dear,” Miss Thompson smiled, “they are adults so you must remember that, they know how the estate works, how the house runs, and they will support you more than you know. Never offend, never be rude or superior …”  
“Dad is …” Phryne wasn’t sure how to phrase this. She had watched her father round the ship and knew he was likely to be pompous, bombastic, demanding and high handed.  
“But you aren’t,” Miss Thompson patted her arm, “you are good and kind, respectful, I know that, and you will learn. I have shown you how to behave at the table, and when you have visitors, you will be fine.”  
Phryne allowed herself a little giggle and helped Janey down before facing the line of household staff waiting to meet them.  
Henry had watched them; he was completely out of his depth and Phryne had told him to be quiet and follow her lead.  
“Dad,” she had held his hand as they approached the house, “please, we need to have these people stay with us, just, follow me and Janey – Miss Thompson has told us how to behave, don’t antagonise them.”  
“Well,” he huffed, “antagonise, Phryne, not a good way to talk to your father …”  
“Dad,” she urged, “this is so different to what we know. I don’t want to argue with you, you are the Baron, but you have to act like one, be benevolent, charming … you can be charming, I know you can.”  
She had watched him on the ship, when he wasn’t drinking in a salon, or a bar, teasing and laughing with ladies, smiling and chatting which had annoyed her because none of them were her mother and she missed her very much - he had been ‘charming’.  
The housekeeper stepped forward, “Lord Fisher, Miss Fisher and … Miss Fisher,” she smiled and bobbed a little curtsey, “welcome to Buttonleigh Manor. I am Mrs Worthy, the housekeeper.”  
“Mrs Worthy,” Henry nodded and let her introduce the butler, his valet and one of the maids to help the young Misses. She introduced the cook, a motherly looking woman all dressed in white, who smiled at the girls making them feel welcome.  
Mrs Worthy looked behind the family group at Miss Thompson and wondered who she was, not family, but not a servant, either.  
“This is Miss Thompson,” Phryne pulled her forward, “she is our governess.”  
“Miss,” Mrs Worthy looked her up and down and pursed her lips.  
“Mrs Worthy,” she held out her hand, “lovely to meet you.”  
Mrs Worthy would be the judge of that, but a governess for the young Misses was a good idea, or they would run wild around the estate. She had been told a little of where the Baron had come from – Australia – but not all the details of their circumstances. He seemed reserved, which, from what she had heard was unusual for an Australian, but he kept a close watch on his daughters. She had taken immediately to them, the elder one seemed to be in charge of her little sister, who stood quietly by her side, eyes wide open in wonder. All she knew of the Baroness was that she was unable to travel at the moment, but hopefully, in time, would follow on.  
“Shall I see to the luggage, My Lord?” the butler gave a little bow.  
“Eh, what?” Henry blinked, “oh, yes, capital idea, er …”  
“Simpson, father,” Phryne nudged him and whispered, changing the usual ‘dad’ to ‘father’, now, Miss Thompson said it was in keeping with their new status.  
“Thank you, Simpson.”  
Simpson clicked his fingers and young men appeared to lift the trunks and carry them into the house and up the sweeping staircase. Phryne stilled theurge to run up and slide down the bannister, but it was tempting; maybe one day, when no one was looking!  
“Well, My Lord,” Mrs Worthy nodded to the rest of the servants to return to their posts, “shall we go in, I expect you would like a tour of the house?”  
“Excellent, lovely,” he cleared his throat, realising he should lead them in. “Girls …” he motioned Phryne to one side and took Janey’s hand, “ready?”  
“Yes, father,” they nodded.  
Mrs Worthy fell into step behind them, with Miss Thompson.  
“What are the girls’ names?” she whispered.  
“Phryne and Janey,” Miss Thompson pointed to each in turn. “Phryne is in charge, and was running the home before they left Melbourne.”  
“Poor lamb,” the housekeeper mused, “the mother, the Baroness?”  
“I am not sure, all I know is she was not able to be with them. Phryne is nearly twelve but she does remarkably well for one so young. I only met them on the ship, I suppose you could say I volunteered for the post, but Lord Fisher said he wanted them schooled in the ways of an English country house and offered me a position for as long as needed. I expect Phryne to be sent to a boarding school within the next year and Janey to follow. Janey is three years younger and much the quieter of the two.” Miss Thompson smiled, “she wants to learn to play the piano.”  
“We have a lovely grand piano, it hasn’t been played for years, but if we get it tuned I am sure we can find a teacher for her … unless …” Mrs Worthy looked at her.  
“A little, but a professional tutor, if his Lordship will allow …”  
Mrs Worthy felt a little easier, “I think we can work together, Miss Thompson, for the girls.”  
“I do hope so, Mrs Worthy, they are quite lovely girls, Phryne is very bright, excellent with numbers and a voracious reader, but there is a mischievous streak. We have spent a week in London, seeing a solicitor and trying to understand the financial side of things. Miss Phryne will need your help, with meal planning, running the house, who does what …” Miss Thompson sighed.  
“Quite, well, all in good time,” Mrs Worthy smiled, “let’s get them settled in, let them explore the place, is there anything else I should know?”  
“If I were you, I should ask Miss Phryne, I am still quite new to the family.”  
“Of course,” Mrs Worthy smiled, “she has a lot to learn.”  
“You will find her a willing student.”

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There were so many rooms to see, the parlour, a small cosy room that would be just for family, the small dining room, the formal dining room, the ballroom, the music room, a sitting room where they could entertain guests for tea or after dinner, a study, bedrooms galore, bathrooms, a nursery, a schoolroom – Phryne and Janey’s heads were spinning when Mrs Worthy suggested they have tea in the small parlour to regain their bearings.  
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Phryne gasped, “thank you.”  
Janey tugged her hand.  
“What’s up, Janey?” she bent down.  
“Phryne,” her sister whispered, “I don’t like tea.”  
“Mrs Worthy,” this was to be Phryne’s first order? No, her first request - “would it be possible for Janey to have lemonade? She hasn’t quite grown into the taste of tea.” She looked across at Miss Thompson who gave a slight nod of her head to indicate she was correct in her behaviour.  
“Why of course it would,” Mrs Worthy smiled, “any time you want something Miss Janey, you just come and ask – hot chocolate, milk … you just ask and I will see if I can accommodate you.”  
“Thank you,” Janey gulped and Phryne relaxed, Mrs Worthy seemed an even more kindly soul than she had initially appeared.

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They fell into bed, exhausted. Miss Thompson settled them in and told them they had done very well, that their mother would be proud of them. They had dined in the formal dining room, sat at one end of a long table, their father between them. Three courses, three! They were used to one, sometimes a dessert on the ship but no more. They had begun their meal with salmon, poached and served on a bed of spinach, then roast chicken with rosemary roast potatoes and vegetables and followed it with peaches and cream. Peaches became Phryne’s new favourite fruit.  
“I don’t think I shall need to eat for a week, Miss Thompson,” Phryne sighed.  
“You know you can go through the menus for the week with Mrs Worthy, so if you want lighter meals or smaller ones when there is just the three of you.” Miss Thompson patted her hand.  
“I think Janey might prefer that, she couldn’t manage all of hers,” Phryne pursed her lips.  
“You are the lady of the house,” she smiled, “but the lady of the house needs some sleep, it’s been a busy day. Good night, Miss Phryne.”  
“Night,” Phryne turned over and closed her eyes, Janey, in the bed next to her was already asleep.

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The autumn sunlight, watery but warm, slipped into the room between the curtains and over the sleeping forms of two young girls wrapped around each other in one bed. The other bed showed signs of an occupant, but Janey had still not got used to sleeping alone and frequently woke during the night and crawled in with her sister. Phryne didn’t mind, she didn’t wake, not fully; in time Janey would learn that Phryne was always there for her, would always be there for her even if they were far apart.  
Miss Thompson entered the room and threw open the drapes, calling a cheery ‘good morning’, and went to run them a bath each. While they bathed she would set out clothes for them, until they came to know a maid who would take over those duties.  
“Breakfast is set out in the small dining room,” she smiled, “you help yourselves from the sideboard, have as little or as much as you want and then we shall see what this fine day holds for you, eh?”  
Janey stretched and yawned, and nudged her sister.  
“Where’s father?” she asked as she slipped from under the covers and headed into the adjoining bathroom – indoor plumbing was still a novelty.  
“I believe he is breakfasting and then going for a walk around the estate with the gamekeeper,” Miss Thompson called through, “come on, Miss Phryne,” she nudged the dark-haired sister, “up we get.”  
“Urgh,” Phryne groaned, “must I?”  
Miss Thompson laughed, “Anyone would think you have been out partying all night, Miss, now,” she pulled back the covers, “your bath is drawn and I shall put out your clothes for the day. Mrs Worthy will introduce you to your maid today.”  
The bed was so comfortable, such a difference from their home in Collingwood, better than the ones on the ship and they were lovely, and as good as the ones in the hotel they had stayed in in London. Everything was still so new and to be savoured, and that included bed. However, she rolled over and out of bed and staggered to the bathroom.  
“Hey!” Janey laughed, “you use the other one, I’m already in the bath.”  
Phryne grinned, not only did they have indoor plumbing they had their pick of bathrooms, life was good. The only thing missing was their mother waking them up each morning.

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Days blended into weeks; Phryne went over the household accounts and the daily running of the house with Mrs Worthy. She asked if the meals could be simpler for just the family, and only two courses at dinner unless they were entertaining, for entertain they would have to. Word got around that the Manor was occupied again, and invitations to afternoon teas and dinners started to arrive which they would have to respond to and reciprocate and it worried Phryne.  
“Miss Thompson,” she turned to her governess and friend, “how do we do this? Without our mother, tea with just father seems odd, dinners may be easier with him at the head of the table, but …” she was just a child, dragged to adulthood far too soon.  
“Have you asked Mrs Worthy what she knows of these families, Miss Phryne,” Miss Thompson sat her down in the parlour, “the news has got round that there is a new Baron of Richmond, and I bet the news also is that he has no wife …”  
“He has a wife!” Phryne cried and jumped up, “she just couldn’t come with us!”  
“Alright, Miss Phryne,” she took her hand, noticing the tears, this wasn’t fair on the child, “I know, your mother was unable to travel, but the ladies will not know of that, or think of it … a single man is a challenge, a target for other single ladies or mothers who have daughters they are trying to marry off.”  
“Father is not in the market for a wife!” the child stamped her foot angrily.  
“Then we shall let it be known that your mother is not well enough to travel …”  
Phryne flopped down into the chair again, “I suppose so. I wrote to Aunt Prudence last week, maybe she’ll have news …”  
“Let’s hope so, dear,” Miss Thompson pulled her close, she was becoming motherly to her two charges and she had learnt that both girls liked to hug.

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Mrs Stanley had no news that was good for her two nieces, too far away for her to comfort. She had pestered the local police force who had finally set a young constable on the case, when he wasn’t carrying out his normal duties. Constable Robinson knew enough about Mrs Prudence Stanley from his mother to be diligent in his search for her sister. He knew Phryne and Janey from their visits with Margaret Fisher to pay Henry’s fines, two sweet girls that should be with their mother and not thousands of miles away with a drunken father who was known to beat them. He hoped they were safe and even had the nerve to ask after them when Mrs Stanley called for her weekly update.  
“Kind of you to ask, Constable,” she hummed, “from Phryne’s letter she is well and they have a kind governess looking after them.”  
“That’s good,” he nodded, “as to the case of your sister, Mrs Stanley, we are looking into other abductions of similar ladies over the past months.”  
“Similar ladies, Constable?” she raised an eyebrow, “in what way?”  
“In the way of age and looks, Madam,” he assured her, “all dark haired, all around the same age as Mrs Fisher, sorry, Baroness Fisher,” he must remember that alive or dead, Margaret was The Baroness Fisher, “and all of similar financial insecurity.”  
“How many, Constable?”  
“Up to now we think four,” he rested his hand on the files at the end of the desk. “We have little to go on, I’m afraid, it’s quite the puzzle.”  
“Well, young man,” she stood up, “I trust you will continue to investigate …”  
“Oh, I will, Mrs Stanley, I will do my utmost to find all these ladies and return them to the bosoms of their families.”  
Prudence thought he would go far, hopefully further than the waste of space his superior, Detective Inspector George Sanderson, would.

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Prudence was as kind as she could be when she wrote back to Phryne and Janey. She told them of Constable Robinson’s search for four ladies that disappeared in much the same way as their mother, and that he would continue to investigate for as long as it took.  
Phryne smiled, she remembered the Constable, she remembered teasing him and getting him to reveal his Christian name, Jack, she even knew he was only six years older than her, and he was sweet, giving her and Janey a biscuit out of the tin his mother kept filled. Her oatie biscuits were delicious, sometimes with a hint of coconut. However, she had no illusions it would be easy to find her mother, or if he ever could.

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Phryne managed to navigate her way through social occasions such as afternoon tea with local and not quite local ladies. She was always sure to mention her mother and that she was currently unable to travel due to being unwell, but she was sure nobody took any notice.  
By her birthday they were firmly settled in the house. Phryne’s birthdays had never been celebrated, barely even mentioned but Miss Thompson and Mrs Worthy cornered the Baron and suggested that they mark it with a celebratory meal, a cake and gifts. He had scratched his head and mumbled that he didn’t know what to buy a twelve-year old girl but Miss Thompson had already thought of that and compiled a list of books that Phryne was interested in, and she even went as far as suggesting perhaps her first piece of jewellery, a little locket or necklace.  
“Nothing too big, you understand, sir,” she smiled, “but it must be something you have chosen.”  
Henry huffed and puffed but agreed that his elder daughter had been really quite remarkable in the absence of her mother. He hadn’t had to raise his voice to her or Janey, but then they mainly came together over dinner, or lunch. He had given her her head in the running of the house, thinking she would fall at the first hurdle and whine and whinge about their new life, but she hadn’t, she had proved strong and capable and he hadn’t had to do much, which was just how he liked it. In turn Phryne had matured beyond anything Miss Thompson had envisaged. She ran the house, replied to invitations, issued the same, persuaded him that Janey should have a music tutor and managed for fit in her own academic studies – but on that he also had an idea. Phryne needed more than a governess – she needed to go to school. Margaret had often daydreamed, when life was easier in the days shortly after Phryne’s birth, that her daughter should go to a proper school, one where she would be taught deportment, social graces … he asked Miss Thompson if there was such an establishment Phryne could attend.  
“Thing is,” he paced the floor of the private sitting room, “I don’t want her to go away for weeks on end, Janey would never stand it …” Miss Thompson knew Janey was his favourite daughter, “… and really …” he scratched his head.  
“Perhaps, sir,” Miss Thompson thought, “a school nearby, one that she could either go to as a day pupil or just board for the week, come home at weekends?”  
“Capital,” he agreed, “you couldn’t – y’know – er check ‘em out, could you? Only Margaret would have done it, her mother … but …”  
“I understand, Lord Fisher, and I should be happy to arrange visits, if that is your wish.”  
“Yes, right, well that seems a good idea, Miss Thompson, make sure they are disciplined, Phryne can be wilful, y’know.” He harrumphed and picked up his newspaper – Miss Thompson took it that she was dismissed.

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Phryne wasn’t too impressed at being sent to a proper school. It was fairly close by that she did only have to board during the week, and that was enough. A lot of the girls looked down on her because she was from ‘the colonies’ and could swear like a wharfie, which got her into trouble in the first week – her father was not pleased. So displeased, he resorted to the kind of discipline she had not had to endure since they left the house in Collingwood – he struck her, hard, across the cheek which left an angry mark and brought tears to her eyes, tears she refused to shed.  
“I knew it was too good to last!” she yelled at him, standing firmly, her hands balled into fists ready to fight back, “I knew it wouldn’t be long before you hit me again!”  
“Room, now!” he bellowed and shoved her towards the stairs, “you will learn to behave like a young lady!”  
She ran up the stairs, two at a time, and he heard the door slam. Pushing his hands into his pockets he headed into the parlour and straight up to the drinks tray. Two or three very large whiskies later he was sitting by the fireside, musing on raising two girls on his own – where the hell had Margaret got to?

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Four months earlier:

Margaret Fisher blinked in the bright light. She remembered storming out of the house telling someone this was his last chance and he either brought home enough to feed them for this week or he could leave, after that it was all nothingness. She seemed to be lying on a bed, with a firm mattress, crisp cotton sheets and a soft pillow. She was warm, though she registered she was wearing perhaps a shift, or a nightdress – a worrying thought that someone had undressed her, she hoped that was all that had happened, but she didn’t feel as if anything was wrong ‘down there’ it had been quite some time since he (whoever ‘he’ was) had been interested and sober enough to engage in any sexual act with her.  
“Ah,” a soft, male voice hummed, “you’re awake, good.”  
She blinked again and registered an ordinary face, clean shaven, hair neatly cut, friendly brown eyes. He was dressed in a white shirt, cream waistcoat and matching trousers, not too smart but relaxed and elegant.  
“Where …?” she coughed, her throat was dry.  
He held her head and put a glass to her lips, the water was cool and refreshing, “Just a little, for now,” he whispered, “you are in my home, you are safe and will be well cared for – there is no one to shout at or beat you.”  
‘That makes a change,’ was her only thought as she drifted back into slumber.

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Time didn’t matter, days merged into days, the sun rose and set and she was happy. She had good food, a warm bed, her clothes were shifts and robes, she wasn’t pestered by the gentleman and there were others, four, maybe five, sometimes she thought she saw another face, all similarly comfortable. Some did embroidery, some read out loud, some sewed and she had the luxury of a lovely baby grand piano to play. It was almost as if he was surrounding himself with the pleasures of life yet not demanding payment. Even the thought of her girls was a distant memory – a dream that had never happened.  
Margaret was happy and knew nothing other than this life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We go quickly through Phryne's new life, Janey gains strength, Henry may, or may not, find a new love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a description of Phryne's life with Rene, and may upset some. Please know I do not wish to offend or upset any readers. Paragraph 13.

As Phryne grew in stature, though she would never be very tall, and in confidence, her mother continued in blissful ignorance of her past life. She continued to play the piano for the Man, eat good food, sleep soundly in a comfortable bed and forget the outside world. In dry and warm weather, the women, now numbering four and not changing identities, were allowed out in the garden to sit, perhaps tend the flowers and shrubs, and talk. Their talk was philosophical, He would lead the discussions, tell them that the world was cruel, that the god he worshipped had a better life planned for them. His family had always taken care of their women folk and, in truth they wanted for nothing.  
Margaret was known as ‘East’, the others as ‘North’, ‘South’ and ‘West’, He said it was because that was the compass orientation of the rooms they occupied.

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Phryne found school exhausting, infuriating and enlightening, conflicting emotions. She lived in the school during the week and at weekends would head home to Janey and the rigours of running a home. She decided that Janey needed to know how to deal with the servants, who were so amenable, how to pay the bills and set out the menus. Mrs Worthy was very helpful, sensing a coming change in Miss Phryne, her determination in organising, and her interest in the ways of the world.  
The girls celebrated birthdays and Christmases, Henry allowed them the run of the house and was happily led by Miss Thompson. He took a chance; he decided that, having not heard from his wife, and no good news from his sister in law, that he would, with a heavy heart, have his wife declared dead. It wasn’t easy, Prudence wrote to him as often as she wrote to Phryne and Janey, and they both knew that Margaret was not coming back, or sailing over to them. Prudence asked him to wait, and sailed the ocean to see them.

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Prudence was almost bowled over by the greeting she received from her nieces. Henry hadn’t been quite as please to see her, but her soft expression, tinged with sadness had him realise that, really, Prudence Stanley was only there to support them. She loved his girls and time away from Melbourne and the trials that beset him there, had mellowed him.  
“Prudence,” he held his hands out to her, “how lovely of you to travel so far to see us.”  
She looked him up and down and saw, possibly, a sadness in his eyes.  
“Henry,” she hummed, “I miss them, and, well, with Guy now being schooled in England …” what a perfect excuse, but it was her nieces she had come to see – Guy could wait.  
“Of course,” he smiled, “we shall have him over for the weekend?”  
“That … that would be lovely,” she swallowed, Henry, it appeared, had acquired social graces.

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The time passed softly, Phryne soaked in the praise her aunt gave her for running the home, Prudence talked with her, about life, and told her that in reality, her mother had passed.   
“I am so sorry, darling girl,” she held her while she wept, “but Constable Robinson has done so much on and off duty, to find her and the others that went missing. He refuses to mark her disappearance as a death, or a murder,he says that as she hasn’t been found then he won’t sign it off as …well… closed.”  
“It’s not fair on father,” Phryne sniffed, “he’s been better, kinder … alright he had a moment but I had used bad language at school and maybe I had been in the wrong, he has been more of a father. I miss mother, so does Janey, but after two years, she isn’t coming back, is she?”  
Mrs Stanley tucked an errant curl behind her ear, “you are such a wise child, always have been, and, no, sorry. Whatever has happened to her, she has gone, nobody knows where or how. Constable Robinson refuses to stop investigating, though he can only do it on his own time, now.”  
“He seems a decent sort,” Phryne sighed, trying to imagine the young police officer now a little older and wiser.  
“He is, Phryne,” her aunt patted her arm, “a fine young man.”

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The Christmas Phryne turned fourteen was quieter – there was a war in Europe, that most had said would be over by the festive season, but it wasn’t – so the Fisher family decided that it was not a time for celebrating but more for reflection. Phryne thought they should ‘do something’, though what she wasn’t sure about.  
“The village is holding fund raising shows in the village hall,” Miss Thompson told her, “all monies raised to go to sending parcels to our lads in the trenches, “and jumble sales, too …”  
“Could we help?” Janey asked.  
“How?” Phryne frowned.  
“You could send some things you have grown out of to the jumble sale, go and help with the teas – Janey, you play well enough to give a short performance at one of the shows,” their governess suggested. “It would bring a smile to some of the injured men that have returned, perhaps.”  
“I saw one, in the village the other day,” Phryne sighed, “he was blind in one eye and poorly sighted in the other and some boys were throwing things at him and another pinched his iced bun that the baker had given him.”  
“That’s awful,” Janey gasped, “what happened?” She knew Phryne would have waded in it was the type of thing she was known for, helping the unfortunate, or the bullied girls at school.  
“I gave the leader a proper pasting,” Phryne sniffed, standing with her legs apart and her hands on her hips, “left him with a black eye and a bloody nose.”  
“Not very ladylike, Miss,” Miss Thompson scolded.  
“’s bad enough the Hun shooting our men,” she huffed, “but for our own lads to do it isn’t right. They’re fighting to keep us safe – I wish I could do more, like go and fight ‘em myself.”  
“Tilly’s gone to be a nurse, over in France,” Janey sighed. Tilly was their maid and she was rather fond of her.  
“I could do that,” Phryne jumped to attention.  
“You’re fourteen, Miss Phryne,” Miss Thompson laughed, “too young to even think about that.”  
Phryne frowned, ‘one day,’ she thought, ‘one day I shall go and do something worthwhile.’

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Janey read the letter that her sister had left on the bed.  
“Sorry, sis,” it read, “I have to go, I’m fifteen now, I can do this. You look after the house, turn the west wing into a convalescence for the returning soldiers, maybe,” Janey thought back to the conversation just over a year ago and sighed, “Mrs Worthy will still help you, but I need to do something, I can’t just read the papers and think it’s nothing to do with me. Father will understand, he fought in the Boer War.”  
While Henry did understand he still thought her reckless. She was still a child, she would see things no well brought up young lady should see. Phryne was pretty, and slim, and while she was no push over, these were soldiers she would meet and if they wanted something, they would take it. He knew, and though he had stopped short of forcing himself on a woman he had seen other soldiers do it.

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The recruiting officer knew perfectly well that the fine boned girl in front of him was too young to be sent to the front, but they were short of nurses. So many had fallen at the first fence, panicked at the sight of dismembered bodies, half amputated limbs, burned faces and blinded eyes, that he had to take whoever was willing to go.  
“I can drive, too,” she added, a tad too enthusiastically. She had had the chauffeur teach her in the family Rolls Royce, round the estate and through the woods that bounded the edge of their land. She was a fast driver, not too careful but safe enough. She was sure that as long as she could dodge a shell or a Hun’s bullet, she would be useful.  
So, nursing auxiliary and ambulance driver Fisher, set sail for France ready for adventure.

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It was an adventure, chilling, thrilling and terribly frightening, but she got through it. She proved herself resourceful and daring. Rather ruthless when it came to rescuing young soldiers destined to die alone in the trenches, she became known for powering her battered Sunbeam ambulance round shell holes, between fallen trees and, in one case, through a run of trenches. Admittedly this wasn’t planned but she had tipped the vehicle into the trench and just carried on driving until she found a way out, collecting a few injured Tommies on the way.  
She held the hands of dying men as shells fell around her and toppled hospital tents, she wrote their letters to their loved ones as they succumbed to injury and fever and in all the months she served, no one knew how absolutely terrified she was. She cheered and chivvied, bossed and berated anyone who stood in her way to render succour to an injured soldier of any rank.  
When it was all over, and she held a citation star for her gallantry to injured soldiers, she headed straight for Paris. Paris, she had been told, was where she would find gaiety, laughter, freedom.  
She wrote to her sister and father during her years at the front as often as she could, to assure them she was safe, but when she entered Paris her letters took on a different tone.

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Janey and her father read and reread Phryne’s letters as they arrived,devouring the news that she was alive, shuddering at the enormity of it all and the terrible things she saw. They wrote back telling how Janey had taken her advice and turned the West Wing into a kind of halfway house for returning injured soldiers, how they spent time in the gardens in the summer and how she would play the piano for them in the evenings and walk with those that could into the village and have tea and buns at the local tea shop. Mrs Worthy had helped her organise the house, Miss Thompson helped her engage the boys in educational pursuits, games, art and those that could, helped out with the gamekeeper and gardeners. Of course, there were some whose demons were too strong and struggled to cope with the outside world, the sun and soft summer showers, but Janey sympathised with them, hoping Phryne’s demons would be less. Phryne wrote back saying she had made a friend in one of the doctors, Elizabeth Macmillan, the only female doctor she had found. Mac, as she called her, sent back little titbits on how to help these men through their mental battles with their injuries and memories of what they had seen.  
When the letter arrived saying she would be spending some time in Paris, to recuperate, find some joy after so long in the dark and muddy world of war, Janey was relieved. There would be a time when her sister came back to her, but from what the soldiers had told her, she could not rush her. She would need time.

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Paris was struggling after the war. There were many on the streets without homes or food, buildings were dilapidated and shabby but the part Phryne found herself in was a bustling hub of artists, poets and musicians. She had first found a hotel and used some of her unspent pay on a room, hot bath, hot meal and some nicer clothes. She had lost weight and was tiny and waif-like, but her enthusiasm for what the city could throw at her was unbounded. She spent her evenings in the cafes and bars, listening to the talk and the accordions, watching artists paint to rapturous applause and drinking the rough red wine that seemed never ending. She didn’t drink to excess, finding her limit fairly quickly because if she didn’t – well who knew what would happen? Her halting French became fluent and sometimes she was asked to sing. It embarrassed her, at first, but the few coins that were thrown at her helped keep her at the hotel until that fateful night.  
She was watching one artist, flamboyant, confident to the point of arrogance when she was approached by another. He was older, hair cut rough in a line along his collar, he wore a smock that was paint spattered and an artist’s beret. He had kind eyes and when he spoke it was with a gentleness.  
“Mam’selle,” he bowed politely over her hand, “my name is Pierre Sarcelle and I was wondering if you had ever had your picture painted?”  
“M’sieur,” she hummed, “why would anyone paint this little face?”  
“Oh, mam’selle,” he smiled, “you do yourself a disservice. Such fine bone structure, such eyes … you are quite a sight …”  
Phryne was flattered, who wouldn’t be? But she knew enough to be certain he wasn’t just planning on painting her portrait … she had seen many paintings of women, so many without clothes.  
“Veronique!” he called behind him and a woman of a similar age to him, stepped up to his side. “What do you think, eh? A perfect model, non?”  
“Mam’selle,” the woman he called Veronique smiled, “I am Pierre’s wife …”  
Phryne gave a little bow of her head, “Madame,” she hummed.  
“… I ‘ave suggested before that you might make a good subject, it would seem my ‘usband has finally taken my advice, eh? He wishes nothing more than to paint you, commit you to canvas for eternity, nothing else.”  
“Come, we will show you my work,” Pierre offered her his hand, “then you can give your answer, oui?”  
Phryne tipped her head and decided it wouldn’t hurt, she was here, in Paris, for another adventure, maybe she could persuade him to paint a simple portrait and she could send it back to Janey and her father. After that …

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The portrait arrived just after New Year, 1919. Janey was delighted and had it framed immediately and hung in the parlour. Phryne smiled almost shyly down on them every time they sat in that little private space. She wore a wide soft-brimmed hat over hair that was a little loose, strands falling round her face. The collar of her dress fell out of view but exposed delicate collar bones and a slender neck.  
“Isn’t it lovely, father?” Janey clapped her hands with delight as Boots hung it for her.  
“Beautiful, a lovely gift, but I do wish she would come home.”  
“She will, father, she needs time and it’s an adventure for her, you know how she likes an adventure.”  
Henry hugged her, she was right, Phryne was always the one in trouble for going off on adventures, sneaking into the circus and once hiding in a wagon with the idea of running away with them. She was most put out when she was discovered!

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Phryne reclined on the chaise longue, rich coloured throws hid its shabby cover and were draped over her legs but the rest of her, from her head to her thighs was naked, the first time she had relented and posed nude for Pierre. She had been nervous, shivering a little in the cool air which made her nipples pert. Her hair was loose and she had one arm raised above her head. She looked fragile, young – her eyes wide.  
The door opened and Veronique entered, bringing with her the arrogant artist she had seen in the café. Veronique whispered in his ear and he approach, taking her hand and kissing it – all the while his eyes roamed over her tiny, naked self.  
His name was René Dubois.

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At first René was all charm and gentleness, even when he took her to bed, the first time for her, he made sure she was ready before he entered her. It wasn’t the most comfortable experience for her but the final feelings were enough to have her almost blackout with surprise. He taught her many things, many ways to please him, and he ensured she got as much pleasure from the act as he did. At least at first.  
As the months wore on Phryne noticed little instances of jealousy. If she spoke to another man for too long, he would pull her away and remind her that she was his, or if she was asked to sing too often, he would use the excuse of resting her voice but most of all he stopped her modelling nude for Pierre. With Pierre she was safe, Veronique seemed to be enough for him, and it was her that had taken her to a female doctor and helped her acquire a device to prevent an unwanted pregnancy. The diaphragm was easy for her to use and she worked out the right time to insert it before René took her to bed.  
At first, when it was time for her monthly curse, she pushed him away, it was a private time, not something she wanted to discuss with him. He could be a little rough at these times, rubbing himself against her curls then exploding his seed over her belly or into her hand. But it was the time he forced her to put her mouth on him that she felt trapped, trapped to the point of abuse. He pushed her to her knees and opened his trousers, freeing himself and then he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. She gasped at the pain and as she did so he pushed his hardness into her mouth and told her what to do. She’d heard of this way to please a man, but couldn’t bring herself to ever think of doing such a thing until now. When his tip hit the back of her throat and flooded into her mouth, he yelled at her.  
“Avaler! Chienne!”  
She gulped down the sweet salty liquid then retched and vomited at his feet. He struck her across the side of her head and she fell to the floor.  
“Clean it up!” he stalked out, fastening his trousers and left her crying and wondering how she had been so stupid. He had been so arrogant that evening in the café that she had immediately vowed not to have anything to do with him. She was sure it was he that asked Veronique for an introduction and Pierre’s wife must have known what he was like, must have known that once she was in his thrall she would be treated so badly.  
“Your bed, Phryne,” she sniffed to herself, “you’ll have to lie on it.” But she determined that if his behaviour continued in this vein, she would find some way of leaving him, even though that meant leaving Paris.  
She didn’t tell Veronique the truth about her absence from the café that night, just that she was not feeling well. René had picked up another woman to satisfy his urges and didn’t return to their little garret until the next day, when she had cleaned the place from top to bottom, tidied her hair and was, to all intents and purposes, quite well.

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Christmas would have been lovely, at home, she mused as she nursed yet another split lip. For a whole yearshe took René’s abuse, his beatings, his forcing her to please him with her mouth, grabbing her and pushing her into a wall while he took his pleasure, sometimes from behind, sometimes from in front but rarely when she was ready for him and it made her sore, she was bruised and so it was with some relief when there was a knock on the door of the garret and Dr Elizabeth Macmillan stood there, with a bottle of single malt scotch whisky in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. Phryne almost fell into her friend’s arms.  
“Bloody hell, Phryne,” the doctor exclaimed, “here,” she poured her a generous measure of the whisky and made her drink it.  
She coughed as the sharp liquid hit the back of her throat and held out the glass for a refill.  
“Right, my girl,” Mac became all business, “first a quick examination, for injuries, then I’m getting you out of here.”  
“But …” Phryne blinked away tears, “if he finds me gone …”  
“He won’t,” Mac was sure of that, “and if he does come after us, I know a few painful operations.”  
That had Phryne give a little smile.  
“Well, Miss,” Mac sat back, “you’re bruised, indications of rape …”  
“Mac, I let him …”  
“You weren’t ready, you were raped, Phryne, that’s what rape is, not waiting for you to consent, and that cut lip is not a sign he loves you, it’s control, possession.”  
Phryne bit her lip, and winced, Mac was right, and she knew it, had known it for some time but if she admitted it then she admitted she was weak. Phryne Fisher was strong – she had served on the front, dodged bullets and shells – but it took a man, all puffed up arrogance and self importance, to bring her down.  
“Where is he, now?”  
Phryne shrugged, “I’m not sure, it’s ‘that time’ so he may be with someone else then when he comes home, he will expect me to use my mouth – Mac …” herlip trembled and Mac knew that he forced her to pleasure him that way. Personally, she would have bitten off the offending part of his anatomy, she had seen it happen.  
They set to packing her clothes and toiletries, the things she had collected, and, from under the bed, the first nude Pierre had painted, the one that had started her relationship with René. Though the relationship hadn’t gone well, the painting was a reminder of kindness. Pierre and Veronique had been kind and never knew the extent to which René had hurt her, and she didn’t want to tell them.  
“How will we get to …”  
“England?”  
Phryne nodded – she would go home.  
“Know a chap with a plane, he’ll get us there. I’m going to work in a London hospital for six months then who knows.” Mac shrugged and picked up her bag and one of Phryne’s suitcases. “Come on.”

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Phryne didn’t remember too much of the journey out of Paris. Mac seemed to take charge, load her onto a train, feed her and settle her into a bunk to sleep. She propelled her through streets to a hotel, ran her a warm, soothing bath, sent down for food and wine and settled her into an impossibly comfortable bed that reminded her of the journey from poverty in Collingwood to Somerset, England.  
When Mac took her to the airfield she began to feel as if she was shedding a tight skin. As they took off into the blue sky, she felt free. The land, France, retreated from view, became small and with it the idea of René following her, chasing her down and capturing her again. The pilot was not young but not old, and he didn’t seem to see her as an object, which made a change, usually men looked her up and down and she imagined they wondered what they could do with her. Not this man, he loaded the luggage into the plane and helped her into the aircraft, then he called, “Contact!” and they taxied and lifted off into the wide blue yonder.

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Phryne wrote to her sister to tell her she was in London.  
“I’ll be home soon, Janey,” she wrote, “I have a few things I want to do here, first but I should be home for my birthday.”  
Janey ran into the parlour to show her father the letter, and to suggest they have a welcome home party.  
“She’ll be twenty-one father,” her eyes shone with happiness.  
“And you were eighteen just weeks ago, sweet girl,” he smiled, “perhaps a joint party for you both, as you refused to celebrate.”  
She laughed, it was true, she said she would prefer to celebrate her birthday with her sister so they had had a small private dinner party with some friends they had made and the soldiers that remained in the West Wing had insisted they all take her for a turn round the floor in the ballroom.  
When she told Miss Thompson, who was now more of a companion than a governess, she reminded her that both girls should prepare to be presented at court next Season.  
“Oh, I suppose so,” Janey frowned, “I shall ask Phryne about that,” she would prefer they were together for such a thing. The only men she knew were the local village boys and the soldiers, the Season would mean being shown off to suitable bachelors, young men of a similar standing; she wasn’t sure about it. She was fairly sure that her sister would not like it, and she had been in France, with artists – who knew what she had really been doing. All her letters said was that she sang in a café sometimes, had many friends and an ‘admirer’. Miss Thompson was quite sure this ‘admirer’ was a lover but she didn’t tell Janey that. She had written a short note to her former pupil telling her to take care and not to do anything rash.  
“But if there is anything you can’t tell Janey, Miss Phryne,” she had written, “you can talk to me and I shall keep your confidence.”  
Phryne had smiled at her kindness but she didn’t tell her what she was going through with René, for fear she would send her father over to ‘rescue’ her, and a fight between her father and the Frenchman was not something she wanted to see, followed by the subsequent fight between herself and her father.

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Mac made sure Phryne was physically fit and recovered from the outward abuse that René had dished out to her, but was in no doubt that the psychological damage would take some time for her to get over, if she ever did. She tried to get her to open up about it, but all Phryne said was she had been stupid, too trusting, and it was all over now, no man would ever control her like that again.  
“So what next for the Honourable Phryne Fisher?” she sat back in the chair in Phryne’s suite and sipped a fine single malt whisky.  
“Not really sure,” Phryne curled her feet under her bottom on the couch, “I shall go home for now. See how Janey is faring, and father of course. When I am twenty-five I shall come into my own money, I think I should like to learn to fly, have my own house, and a car.”  
“Marry and bring up the next generation of Fishers?” Mac raised an eyebrow.  
“I don’t think I shall have children, Mac,” she mused, “or marry. If I were to marry wouldn’t he have control of my wealth, and then I would be back where I was with René? No, no I shan’t marry, I shall have my fun, maybe travel a bit more. So far, I have seen France, and some of England, perhaps I shall travel further – in my own plane – the Far East, India, Russia – maybe not, they’re in the middle of a civil war, aren’t they?”  
Mac hummed in agreement, but she wasn’t the marrying type so she couldn’t really comment on that. Travel might be good, as long as she stayed away from artists.

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Phryne looked up at the front door, the highly polished brass handle and bell pull that stood out starkly from the dark wood and sighed, she was home. The door opened and Janey ran down the steps to greet her, flinging her arms around her sister before she was fully out of the car and hugging her so tight she could barely breathe. Janey, she noticed, was taller than she was, and,while still slender, had obviously been better fed than she had for the last five or six years. She favoured her father in colouring and her mother in build.  
“Goodness!” Janey laughed, “you need some good food inside you, I don’t suppose there was much on the front.”  
“It was enough,” Phryne shrugged, “hello, Janey, darling,” she added softly, “it’s so good to see you.”  
“We have missed you so much, haven’t we, father?” she turned to speak to Henry who had followed her out of the house.  
“We certainly have, Phryne,” he bent and kissed her cheek, “but we are so very proud of you. Come,” he put his arm round her, “Simpson will take your bags in.”  
“Everything is ready for you, you can either stay in our room or have one to yourself, I didn’t know which you would prefer,” Janey took her hand.  
“Would you mind dreadfully if I had a room to myself?” she smiled at her sister, “I er …”  
“Not at all,” Janey smiled, “I have got used to being alone at night, at least you won’t have to listen to me snore.”  
“I don’t think I ever noticed, dear sister,” Phryne laughed.  
It was all a joke, Janey knew that Phryne would need space and, from what some of the veterans had told her, she would have nightmares. She needed that freedom to deal with that. Phryne’s new room was close to hers so if there was a problem, if Phryne should have a nightmare, Janey would still hear her. And Phryne understood.

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Miss Thompson entered her new bedroom, in the hopes she could have a quiet chat with her, see how she was feeling and if there was anything she could do that she couldn’t go to Janey for.  
“I think I’m just glad to be back home, Miss Thompson,” she sat on the bed, “there have been so many changes, Janey is so grown up …”  
“She has done remarkably well,” Miss Thompson agreed, “she has been wonderful with the veterans, we only have about three left, and they are like friends. One is staying on as under-gardener, the other two, we shall see. Now, Miss … your letters …”  
“There are things I don’t want Janey to know,” Phryne sighed, “things that happened …”  
“Paris?”  
Phryne nodded, “It was an adventure, and adventures have good and bad sides …”  
“Your admirer?” Miss Thompson had a feeling, a bit like the feeling she had that Janey was rather taken with a certain Lieutenant Applegate in the West Wing, “this admirer hurt you, didn’t he?”  
Phryne just looked down.  
“Well, he shan’t get anywhere near you, now,” the companion took her hand and stroked the back of it, “and you shall have your time to rest.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Now, so you have time to think about it, Janey didn’t celebrate her birthday, she said it wouldn’t be right, not without you, and as you are about to turn twenty-one …”  
“She wants a party,” Phryne finished and drew herself up. She could never deny Janey, and this was important.  
“Just a small one, I think, for both of you. There was a dinner, with the lads and some friends, a little dancing, but nothing grand.”  
“Maybe not too grand this time, either,” Phryne stood up, “but, yes, I can do that, for her.”  
“You are the kindest sister she could have, Miss Phryne.”  
“She is the best little sister I could have.”

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The ‘Welcome Home’ and birthday ball was a great success. They invited people they knew from around the county, young men and women of the right social background and, of course, Janey’s veterans. Henry looked on proudly as his daughters danced with the young men and he in turn danced with one or two ladies, just to be polite. He noticed Phryne flatter and flirt, laugh and dance but always kept the young men at a distance. He chose a waltz to take his elder daughter around the floor.  
“Janey has been spending a lot of the party with that chap,” Phryne nodded towards a Lieutenant with one arm.  
“Young Applegate,” he smiled, “younger son of Lord William Applegate. Lost the arm at Ypres, his elder brother was killed on the Somme so he is now heir to the Earldom. She is fond of him; they play three handed piano together.”  
“Oh?”  
“He was bemoaning the fact he would never play again so she encouraged him to play one part and she would play the others, they’re quite good.” Henry smiled; he liked the Lieutenant. “And you, Phryne, is there no one here for you?”  
“I prefer to graze,” she smiled, “I have just ended a relationship, father, I’m not ready for romance, not yet.”  
“Hm,” he drew his brows together, “are you alright?”  
“Yes, I am quite content, thank you,” she smiled, one day he would know, she supposed, but not now.

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“Well, Lieutenant,” Janey teased, “aren’t you going to ask me to dance?”  
“Miss Janey …” Teddy Applegate gulped.  
“I’ve danced with just about everyone in the room except you,” she pouted.  
“I can’t hold you properly,” he motioned to the sleeve tucked into his jacket pocket.  
“Tosh,” she laughed, “it didn’t bother you on my actual birthday, come on,” she took his hand, “I won’t consider the evening a success unless you dance with me.”  
Teddy sighed, he could never refuse her, being a little in love with her, so he let her drag him onto the floor. He took her hand in his left hand and she put her left hand on his shoulder. True he couldn’t put his hand on her back but she held him close enough and his footwork was perfect.  
“My father has written,” he murmured, “he wants me back on the estate.”  
“And you will go, because it is your duty,” she hummed, “he only has you, Teddy, now …”  
“Will you visit, please?” he blushed at the invitation.  
“I would love to,” she smiled, “and you will come back and visit us?”  
“In a heartbeat,” he pulled their hand close, “just call me.”

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Phryne stole down the stairs; unable to sleep she decided that a cup of cocoa would help. She passed the ballroom and noticed a light on. Pushing the door open, thinking that it might be a servant, or possibly Janey and Teddy Applegate she was surprised to see her father and Miss Thompson dancing to a quiet record. It was a waltz, one that hadn’t been played during the party. She closed the door quickly, and quietly and continued on her journey to the kitchen. As she stirred the milk on the stove she mused on the sight. Her father was a widower, officially, he hadn’t, as far as she was aware, sought out any other female companionship though she knew him to be an accomplished flirt. Miss Thompson was not unattractive, her dark hair coiled in an elegant chignon, her dresses were usually grey or blue, neat and befitting a woman who worked as a companion. Thinking back, from the way she had guided her two young charges through life as daughters of a Baron, she must have more to her background than originally thought. She never mentioned her family, or where she originally came from in England. Then there was the biggest question – ‘did she mind?’ She’d have to think about it.

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Henry liked … admired … Abigail Thompson. She was never forceful, guided Phryne then Janey, and to some extent himself. He knew she set seeds of some things to be done in the house, just to help him through the mire of social niceties. She was very different to Margaret, in looks and manner. He had got out of her some of her history as they danced in the semi dark of the ballroom. She was the youngest child of seven, and the youngest daughter of the family, having three brothers and three sisters. Her father was a Viscount, but impoverished, so like the rest of her siblings she had to find work to keep herself and send a little home. Her eldest brother, Simeon, was now holder of the title, but he himself was a ‘gentleman farmer’ in Yorkshire.  
“So, you see, sir, that is me, not a lot but plenty of family history, rakes most of them,” she had smiled and he saw her face light up.  
“I think, when we are alone,” he whispered, “you could call me ‘Henry’?”  
“Oh, sir,” she gasped, “I don’t know …”  
“And, you …?” he continued with a twinkle in his eye.  
“Er, Abigail, my name is Abigail,” she blushed. Offering her services as governess had not been a way to ingratiate, entrap, a peer, it had simply been a way to continue to earn a living.  
“Lovely,” he smiled.

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Phryne said nothing to Janey about what she had seen in the ballroom, but she did keep watch on her father and Miss Thompson over the Christmas festivities.  
“Phryne,” Janey entered her room one evening, “can you help me?”  
“I’ll try,” her sister put down the book she was reading and waited to hear the problem.  
“You know Teddy is leaving just after Christmas, he kind of begged his father to let him stay, I want to get him something, a keepsake … but I’ve never bought anything for a man …”  
“Hm,” Phryne tipped her head and looked at the ceiling for inspiration, “and I suppose you don’t want to embarrass him?”  
“Oh goodness, no,” she gasped, “only … you see …”  
“You’re rather fond of him, aren’t you?” Phryne patted the bed beside her.  
“Is it obvious?” Janey slumped.  
“Plain as the nose on your face.”  
“Oh,” she seemed disappointed.  
“It’s ok, father likes him, and he is rather personable, good looking, kind and I think he’s rather fond of you, too.”  
“Do you?” Janey’s eyes lit up, “so, what do I do?”  
“Hm, well, I think something useful, yet decorative, does he wear a watch?”  
Janey shook her head, “he lost it, when he lost his arm, and, well … he says he doesn’t want to wear one on his only wrist because he says he will spill his drink every time someone asks him the time.”  
“Why not a pocket watch?” Phryne suggested, “you could have it engraved, from you.”  
“Do you think that would be appropriate?”  
“If you choose your words carefully, even if you just put the date on it, y’know, ‘to Teddy, from Janey, Christmas 1921’, fairly innocuous.”  
“We should go up to town, shopping,” Janey bounced off the bed, “you and me, for a day, yes?”  
Phryne laughed and agreed, they could have a day’s shopping, a nice lunch and be home in time for dinner, if they caught the right train.

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London was cold and wet, people hurried around them, cars and carts passed them and splashed water up their skirts, but they ignored all that and headed to the emporia that would sell what they were looking for. Phryne took Janey to a jewellers and watchmakers that may have the required gift. The watch had a cover that could easily be opened with one hand, pretty chasing on the case and a clear white dial. The engraving, just as Phryne suggested, would take a day or two but could be sent down to the estate in time for Christmas, if that would be acceptable to Miss Janey?  
“That would be lovely,” she smiled as she paid the cost.  
“See,” Phryne smiled, “easy, eh?”  
Janey blushed, a little.  
“Come on, we need to shop for others, too,” Phryne pulled her along, “little things for the servants, something for Miss Thompson and father …”  
“… and I usually get small things for the veterans, even though there are only two in the house now.” Janey told her.  
“And one of them is Teddy,” Phryne grinned.  
“Quite,” she nodded.  
They found a small restaurant for a light but warming lunch, then continued to choose suitable gifts until it was time to catch the train home.  
“Goodness,” Janey wriggled her toes in her boots, “I’m exhausted.”  
“Well, unless you think of anyone else we need to buy for then we are done,” Phryne shrugged and put her feet up on the seat opposite. They had separated for a time in order to buy gifts for each other, before meeting up and choosing a new silver topped cane for their father.  
“Phryne!” Janey gasped, “boots, off!”  
“Yes ma’am,” Phryne laughed and promptly did as she was told.  
“Really,” Janey huffed, but she smiled.

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Christmas was lovely, Phryne had almost forgotten how lovely it could be. They exchanged gifts after going to church and walking home in the falling snow. Everybody from the house went, Teddy escorted Janey, Henry had Phryne by his side and the rest of the household followed. They filled the little village church with their voices in the familiar carols. While Margaret was missed, it didn’t hurt as much as it had before the war. They made a toast at the dinner table, ‘to absent friends’, which meant everyone they knew that hadn’t returned from the trenches, and those that had passed from the ‘flu or just from natural means.  
Cook set a magnificent meal in the dining room: salmon and spinach to start with, a palatte cleanser of a lemon sorbet, roast goose with all the trimmings, a pudding brought in aflame, cheeses, wines and coffee.   
“To the new year,” Henry raised his glass, “may it be bright and full of cheer.”  
“Here, here,” Teddy raised his glass and grinned, he had high hopes for 1922, very high hopes, indeed.  
Miss Thompson, her attendance at the table expressly requested by Lord Fisher, smiled and nodded.  
“Presentation at court for the girls, sir,” she suggested, noticing Phryne role her eyes.  
“I think I shall learn to fly,” Phryne laughed, though this was supposed to be when she had her own money.  
“Quite a daredevil, Miss Phryne,” Teddy teased, “you can fly your sister up to me, if you do.”  
“You’re on, Teddy,” she raised her glass.  
“Can’t I go by train?” Janey whispered.  
Henry looked at the young couple and sighed. He had a feeling Janey would marry before his elder daughter, but, Teddy was a good sort, and his family were of the right level. Abigail had said as much, and he couldn’t even pretend to disapprove.

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“Phryne,” Henry took his daughter aside after Janey had retired for the night, and Teddy had gone to finish packing for his journey to Yorkshire the next day.  
“Father?”  
“Learning to fly, really?”  
“Really, I think I should like it, I flew over from France, you know, it was exhilarating,” she smiled, “it’s the way forward, in transport, you know.”  
“I’m not sure, it sounds dangerous,” he mused.  
‘So was Paris,’ she thought, “only if you’re not taught properly.” Was what she said.  
“I could forbid it,” he tried to sound stern, but he was mellowed from the wine they had drunk and the perfectly lovely day they had had.  
“And I could tell Janey about you and Miss Thompson,” she opened her eyes wide.  
“Blackmail, hey, how did you know?” he cleared his throat, even he wasn’t sure what they were to each other, yet.  
“Saw you waltzing the night of our party,” she sat down again, “I came down to make some cocoa because I couldn’t sleep, the light was on in the ballroom …”  
“Is it wrong?” he asked, “that I should seek female companionship, of someone who isn’t constantly throwing themselves at me, like some of the society widows and matrons I meet. I like Abigail, she is kind, she loves you two, and she isn’t after my money. She’s the seventh child of an impoverished viscount, they have an estate in the north, her brother runs it as a farm.”  
“Ah,” Phryne nodded, “that explains why she is so comfortable in her place, and knows so much about how a young lady should behave. No, father, it isn’t wrong, I’ve had chance to think about it and why not, Janey is heading for marriage, I’m sure Teddy is the one for her, and me, well I think I should like to be a traveller, have a few more adventures before I think of settling down.”  
“You will be careful, won’t you?” he reached over and stroked her cheek, “I do love you Phryne, you are an amazingly strong young woman, and it will take an extraordinarily brave man to even think of proposing to you.”  
“Goodnight, father,” she kissed his cheek, “you have my blessing, to woo Miss Thompson.”  
“Bless you child.”

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Lord Applegate arrived with one thing on his mind – to take his son back to the family estate and out of the clutches of this Australian interloper; that is until he met Lord Fisher.  
“You?” he stopped suddenly as he was shown into the parlour, “Sergeant Henry Fisher as I live and breathe,” he advanced with his hand outstretched, “I never imagined it would be you who took in my lad.”  
“Well, sir, it was my daughter- really,” Henry grinned, “hello Colonel, how are you?”  
Janey looked at Teddy, Phryne looked at Janey and Teddy just gaped.  
“Henry was my batman, during the Boer War, at least until he was wounded and discharged as unfit. Sorry old man,” Applegate shrugged, “but that shoulder …”  
“Barely troubles me these days,” Henry rolled his left shoulder.  
“So, two lovely daughters,” Applegate looked at Janey and Phryne, “your wife?” He looked round.  
“She passed,” Henry swallowed, “before we came over to England.”  
“Damn shame,” Applegate shook his head sadly.  
“Quite,” Henry cleared his throat.  
Phryne never imagined her father was medically discharged from the army, he never spoke about it, but, thinking about dates, and how old she was then he must have either been home on leave when he married her mother, or out of the army.  
The atmosphere warmed up, once Lord Applegate knew who he was dealing with. The warmth with which his son had written about Janey had him worried that he was enamoured of someone well below his station but now he saw and understood.

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Dinner was a lively affair, with stories from Henry and Lord Applegate’s time in the Boer War, though Henry’s was short. Henry said how proud he was of his elder daughter:  
“Though running away to join up at such a tender age, was, I felt at first, a folly,” he smiled across the table at her, “but Janey has also done a remarkable thing with the veterans …”  
“These places have been so needed,” Lord Applegate agreed, “to hospitals just get full of recovering soldiers and they need more than that. Teddy tells me Miss Janey has encouraged him to play the piano again …”  
“Three handers, father,” Teddy laughed, “we get by.”  
“We do more than get by, Teddy dear,” Janey blushed, “we do rather well,” she squeezed his hand, an action that didn’t go unnoticed by the others round the table.  
“We shall hear you, then, after dinner,” Henry encouraged.  
“Oh, er, really,” Teddy cleared his throat.  
“Capital!”

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Lord Applegate accepted the offer to stay more than the one night that was his original plan, and the weekend went rather well. He listened to Janey and Teddy play the piano, went out for a walk round the estate with Henry and a ride out with Phryne and by the end of his stay he felt he knew the Fisher family rather well, and liked them. If Teddy was serious about Miss Janey then he wouldn’t stand in his way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fast track through Phryne and Janey's lives until Phryne returns to Australia.

Well, here is the latest instalment of this AU. Sorry it has taken so long, I kept getting lost in other stories. I hope you managed to have a good Christmas in spite of the current situation, Happy New Year to you all.

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Despite the distance, Janey and Teddy Applegate got closer. There were weekly letters, sometimes twice weekly if something in particular had happened and by March it was expected that there would be a wedding in the near future. Phryne was genuinely happy for her sister; she could see Teddy was kind and gentle and would take care of her.  
“Will you marry, Phryne?” Janey asked one evening.  
“I don’t think so, Janey,” she shook her head, “I may take a lover or two …”  
Janey looked shocked.  
“… but no, I doubt I shall marry. I don’t want to be controlled, you see …”  
“Is that what happened, in Paris?” her sister had always wanted know, there was always something that made Phryne not the Phryne she remembered.  
Phryne sat back in the chair and looked at the ceiling, wondering if she should tell her sister what happened, or part of it, at least.  
“Something like that,” she hummed, “he was charming and gentle at first, then, well he got jealous, easily, if another man spoke to me for too long. I was a fool Janey, to get involved with him, he was arrogant and I knew that, but I was naïve, I suppose …”  
“He beat you?”  
Phryne nodded.  
“Like father used to beat mumma?”  
“No, Janey, worse, he wanted me to know I was his property, it was wrong and no man is ever going to do that to me, again,” she raised her chin and stood up, “fancy a walk?”  
“Alright,” Janey stood up and touched her hand, “sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think of bad things …”  
“I have good things to think of now, you and Teddy, my flying lessons …”  
“You still intend to learn to fly?”  
“Of course,” Phryne laughed, “the sky’s the limit.”  
Janey shuddered.

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As winter turned to spring thoughts turned to that year’s Season. Phryne had rolled her eyes, declaring that at twenty one she was too old to be paraded about in the marriage market and Janey was as good as engaged, but their father decided his two lovely daughters should be presented at court. His surprisingly gentle courtship of Miss Thompson was also noted by the girls, and by Mrs Worthy, who thought it ill becoming that a companion should be so close to the master of the house.  
She had huffed one day when Miss Thompson had mentioned, on Miss Janey’s behalf, that Teddy Applegate was coming down for the weekend and Phryne had heard it. She knew what it meant, dissent in the household, and as the elder daughter she best put it out of the way.  
“Mrs Worthy?” she asked as the housekeeper swept out of the parlour, “is something wrong?”  
“Not for me to say, Miss Phryne,” she sniffed.  
“Now Mrs Worthy,” Phryne smiled, “you have always been very kind to us and I would deem it a kindness if you would tell me what is troubling you. After all we muddle along rather well usually, don’t you think?”  
“It’s just, well, Miss Phryne, Miss Thompson is a companion, an employee and she seems to rather too easy at passing on messages and …” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “… she seems to be rather too close to the master, a little too informal.”  
“Ah,” Phryne nodded knowingly, “you worry that she may have ideas above her station, eh?”   
Mrs Worthy reddened, but nodded her agreement.  
“Miss Thompson is the younger daughter of a Viscount, the impoverished sort,” she smiled, “hence her need for gainful employment. Janey and I are very fond of her, for she led us through to becoming English aristocratic young ladies, at least she managed it with Janey, not so much with me, but, hey ho!” she laughed. “She did what our mother would have done had she been with us, and now father is a widower, we accept that mother has passed away even if we don’t know if it was by fair means or foul, and neither of us minds if father finds someone to keep him company as he grows old. If he chooses to marry again than I can think of no one better than Miss Thompson …”  
“I wouldn’t say the master is old …” Mrs Worthy cautioned.  
“He is to me and Janey,” Phryne laughed, “he’s our father, aren’t they supposed to be old? Anyway,” she continued, “I would like it if you, and any of the other staff, treat Miss Thompson with the courtesy you always have done – we are all family here, Mrs Worthy.”  
The housekeeper nodded politely though she may not agree with everything the young Mistress had said, but it would not do to upset her.

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Visits to dressmakers and tailors took up much of their time, Miss Thompson helped them with their choices, advised them on styles that were suitable for Court and schooled them in their curtseys and small talk.  
“Were you presented, Miss Thompson?” Janey asked as she massaged her ankles, sore from a day in London.  
“Indeed I was,” her companion smiled, “many moons ago, it was Edward VII on the throne, then.”  
“What was he like, the old King?”  
“Full of charm and bonhomie,” she laughed, “a tease with the ladies.”

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For the Season the Fishers took a house in Belgravia. They took the minimum number of household staff to supplement the staff that came with the house, mainly a maid each for the girls, the housekeeper and Lord Fisher’s valet. Miss Thompson would act as chaperone to the girls at dances, dinners and lunches, and companion to them all.   
The evening of Queen Charlotte’s Ball was the most prestigious event they would attend. Phryne and Janey would both be presented to the King and Queen, there would be dancing and polite small talk and from there they would attend various gatherings at Glyndebourne, Ascot and other race meetings. Phryne prepared herself to be supremely bored.

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As it was she found it interesting, irksome, tedious and amusing, all points of the compass, she thought. She danced with the Prince of Wales for a short time, though his comments about the indigenous people of her homeland had her excuse herself as soon as it was acceptable to do so. She quickly filled up her dance card at most balls with some pleasant young lords and earls as partners, flirted and showed Janey how to flirt, but Janey was lucky enough to have Teddy join her at some of the functions and he was more than happy to escort her.  
They went to the races, Phryne was relieved they were not invited to the Royal Enclosure; Henry had a flutter or two, those were unsuccessful but as he had both his daughters and Miss Thompson with him his gambling was kept to a minimum. Phryne was grateful to her companion, she, more than either of the girls knew how bad his betting could be and she didn’t want a scene later on if he decided to drown his sorrows. She confided this in Miss Thompson, because if Abigail was to become involved with him she would need to know.  
“Ah,” she nodded knowingly, “that’s how my family lost most their money, my great grandpapa had habits of buying a ‘pig in a poke’, so to speak, horses that were little more than donkeys …”  
“… with three legs?” They both laughed at that description.  
“Pretty much,” Abigail hugged her, “you know your father has the best daughters he could wish for, I just hope he realises it.”  
“Hm, me too,” Phryne agreed, thinking it was one of the nicest things she could have said to her.

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Eventually the Season came to a close, in August; Phryne was relieved, Janey took up an invitation to go and stay with Teddy in Yorkshire. They were officially engaged, and the wedding had to be prepared for. It would take place the following year, in the village church that Lord Fisher and the two Honourable Misses attended each Sunday.  
Phryne managed to find someone who was not averse to teaching a woman to fly, a skill she found easy, though one or two of her landings may have been a bit bumpy. Her flying instructor was a personable young man with a ready wit and cheeky grin. He was not immune to her flirting and he was perhaps the best person to re-introduce her into the ways of the bedroom. It was really a tumble in his bunk at the aerodrome, reasonably satisfying but not earth shattering. Afterwards she ruminated on the situation and while she was more willing to find lovers now, he probably would just scratch an itch occasionally.

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September was warm, in Melbourne, for early spring. The man was studying celestial charts, eclipses that were due; for during the eclipse was when he would take his final step into the afterlife. He had things to do for that, things that involved his four compass points, and to that end they had been given certain tasks to do in the house and garden. Margaret was to polish the woodwork and piano in the music room, tidy the rugs, clean the windows and reposition the four peace lilies in the hall at the bottom of the stairs. There, there was a model of the solar system under a glass dome constantly moving in line with the seasons. The model was a geocentric model with the earth at the centre based on the Egyptian Ptolemy’s version. It was quite beautiful and with the four peace lilies at the compass points the whole thing was quite incredible.

On the day of the eclipse the ladies went to bed in the afternoon, for a nap, he said, there was something special to happen at night. They fell soundly asleep, more soundly than usual, breathing softly, so softly it was barely discernable. They felt nothing. As the moon slowly moved across the sun he crept into each room and set a box at the end of each bed …

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He was pleased with his work, the ladies felt nothing, they were good and faithful servants and he didn’t wish them to feel pain as he removed the heart, brain, liver and spleen – one organ from each of the ladies. The boxes were placed at the base each of the plants and then he took a stiletto and fixed it into the base of the solar model from which he had removed the cover and simple fell onto it. It pierced his heart and he left this world for what he hoped was immortality in the next.  
Nobody noticed the lack of movement in the house, orders had been cancelled, the post office had been ordered to burn any mail for him and a note was on the gates stating that the house was empty and the owner decreed it would ever be so.

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In her sleep, in Somerset, Phryne turned over and whispered a good bye to her mother who had appeared in a dream and told her to be happy – because she was.

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The years wandered past. Janey got married to Teddy Applegate in the spring of 1923, it was a lovely service, the church was decorated with spring flowers, the choir sang beautifully and Janey looked radiant. She had chosen Phryne to be her bridesmaid, for Janey she would do anything, and their father looked on bursting with pride. Miss Thompson had given over the mother of the bride talk with Janey to Phryne who had been gentle and given her some confidence in her role as a bed-mate to Teddy. She had told her what would happen and that if she ever needed Teddy to stop or do something different she must tell him.  
“He will listen to you, Janey, he will not demand and I am sure you will find him a considerate lover.” She smiled and kissed her cheek, “and if ever you need any advice or guidance I will happily answer your questions as well as I can.”  
“I’m sure you are right, dear sister,” Janey sighed, “he has already told me he will take it slow in everything and we are young enough not to rush into parenthood.”  
“And I am in no hurry to be an aunt.” Phryne laughed softly, “though I think father will be very pleased to be a grandpapa.”  
“I’m sure he will.”

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In the spring of Phryne’s twenty- eighth year, with a niece: Phryne Margaret, known as Megsy, and a nephew, Edward Henry from Janey, the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher felt the pull of her homeland. Janey was a mother now and had little need of her sister, she thought, and Henry had quietly married Abigail Thompson the year after Janey’s wedding, and produced a son, Albert George (Bertie) to carry on the line so she was at a loss as to where she was going in her life. She loved Megsy and Eddie, was generous with her time and gifts, spent time in London with friends she had made over the years, had her hair bobbed and wore the latest fashion, flirted and bedded a few young gentlemen who would not dream of kissing and telling, but there was something missing.  
The letter Dr Macmillan – dear Mac, the best friend she had – sent, had her look into the prospect of returning to Melbourne and starting a life there. Mac was at the Women’s Hospital in Melbourne and had mentioned that her aunt, Prudence Stanley sat on the board of that and many other institutions. She had kept in touch with Aunt Prudence, regularly sending little gifts for her cousin Arthur, letters about her life in England and Prudence had kept her up to date with Jack Robinson’s continuing investigation (on his own time) into the disappearance of her mother. Jack had served in the war in France and returned a different man. Still driven to find the truth in all his cases, but now he was a Detective Inspector at City South station, where her father had frequently crossed swords with the constables there. While Phryne was resigned to her mother’s passing, had been for many years, she still harboured a need to find out what had really happened.  
She had her legacy from her grandmother and her trust from the estate, there was nothing stopping her sailing the oceans to Australia.

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“So, you’re really going back”? Janey held her hand and looked into her sister’s eyes.  
“I am, Janey, I shall start again, somewhere better than Collingwood, in a nice house where I shall be beholden to no one and do as I please,” Phryne smiled through the tears. “I shall write, often, and you must send pictures of the babies and word of your life. Abigail will write to me of father and Bertie, and the goings on in the village. I shall miss you all, but you can come over, perhaps, when I am settled, show Teddy where we come from.”  
“He would like that, he says he would like to see Melbourne, someday, and we should while we can, though a month on a ship with the little ones may be trying, don’t you think?”  
“You can bring Nanny,” Phryne nodded, “I should like to take them to Luna Park without sneaking in on the coat tails of a large family, and to walk on the foreshore, maybe have a picnic?”  
“I think they’d like that too.”

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Jack Robinson sighed and made a note in his diary: ‘the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher returns to Melbourne’. Mrs Stanley had ‘popped’ into the station to inform him that her niece was returning to her home city and would no doubt be looking to talk to him about his investigation into her mother’s disappearance.  
“Of course, Inspector,” she hummed, “we know Margaret is dead, but it would give my niece peace if you were to find out what actually happened, where she lies now.”  
“Indeed, Mrs Stanley,” he nodded, “but I doubt I shall have anything new to tell her that you haven’t passed on to her, already.”  
It had always bothered him that they never found the Baroness’ body or that of the other 3 ladies still listed as ‘missing’, his pursuit of the case was the only thing that kept him interested in his life since his return from France. His wife didn’t understand what he had gone through, how could she? And she never agreed with his relentless investigation into the disappearance of a woman who was married to a habitual drunk and beat her and their two girls. When he had stood on the picket lines, shoulder to shoulder with the other constables, during the police strike of ’23 she had packed up her belongings and gone to live with her sister in England – she hadn’t come back and he was sure she never would. She now moved in completely different circles, so her sister said in her sporadic letters, escorted by gentlemen of ‘means’. He wondered if he should divorce her on the grounds of desertion but everyone knew Jack Robinson was not that kind of man; at least until she wrote saying she wanted a divorce because she had met someone who she wanted to marry. She could divorce him on the grounds of mental cruelty – but no one would say he had been cruel in any way, distant, perhaps, maybe a little less than understanding, but he could say the same about her and she had left him. He wrote back, a short terse note saying he would agree to divorce her on the grounds of her desertion of him. She wrote back saying he wasn’t being fair.  
“May I remind you, wife,” he sent back, “you left me.” He underlined ‘wife’ ‘you’ and ‘me’. The underlining was dark and nearly tore through the paper; after he had sent the letter he thought that maybe writing such a missive when one has supped too well and not too wisely, was not the best idea. He consulted his lawyer who agreed on the latter thought, and the former grounds. Jack filed the divorce papers before Rosie could and the proceedings were conducted by letter. Not ideal but neither had to face the other in court, it took longer, but in the end it was done and they were free of each other. He sold their little bungalow with three bedrooms and bought a smaller one with two bedrooms and a larger garden. The remainder of the ‘estate’ was divided between them and that was the end of that. Jack thought he would not marry again, he wasn’t very good at talking things through to resolve personal differences; he was happy enough with his flowers and vegetable plot, his glass of whisky in the evening and his ‘Complete Works of Shakespeare’. Work took up the greater part of his life, he saw his mother occasionally, and life moved on apace. Now Miss Fisher, the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, was returning and he wondered if he would recognise her, how much would she have changed from the grubby little waif that used to accompany her mother to retrieve Henry from the cells after a night of drunken revelry?

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The voyage from England to Australia was long, but not too tedious. Phryne had a stateroom on the ship, large and luxurious, she dined at the Captain’s table with other wealthy passengers, she danced with young men in the evenings, flirted and took one or two to bed, though on a ship it was more noticeable and she needed to be discreet, she didn’t want to get a name for herself that would embarrass the family and see her talked about in unflattering terms. She whiled away the days reading on the foredeck, playing deck games and engaging in pleasant small talk with ladies and gentlemen.   
She had booked a suite at the Windsor, a hotel she could only dream about staying in when she first left Melbourne, Mac was going to meet her with a taxi waiting to take her and her luggage to the hotel and then she would begin to look for a new home, visit Aunt Prudence and cousin Arthur and go and see this Inspector that Mrs Stanley had told her about. Perhaps two heads would be better than one, and she wanted to thank him for continuing to keep the case open.

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She arrived at the Windsor, with Mac, ready to take on the city. Mac had greeted her with a hug and a yelp, the hotel arranged for a maid to unpack for her and there was a little post set on a little table by the door.  
She tossed a letter from her aunt to one side to be read later, with a stiff drink, and raised her eyebrows at an invitation to luncheon with Mr and Mrs Andrews – friends of Mrs Stanley’s.  
“You going?” Mac reclined on a chaise, “you’ve just got off a ship, that’s a good excuse.”  
“I know Lydia, it’s only luncheon, I shall go and perhaps leave early. Aunt P said in one of her letters that she is generous with her time for one of the charities my aunt is on the board of, and she does give good parties.” Phryne was looking through her wardrobe for something suitable for a summer day. She pulled out a pink dress that floated round her calves and showed off her shoulders and the top of her back. She teamed it with matching shoes and a hat with a small brim. She lifted a complimentary wrap and small clutch bag, ensured she had everything she needed and skipped out of the hotel to a waiting taxi.  
“Have fun!” Mac called.  
“Catch you later!” Phryne waved cheerfully.

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Phryne expected a light luncheon, possibly buffet style, good conversation and plenty of champagne; what she did not expect was a shaky, nervous little mouse of a maid telling her that the gathering had been cancelled, due to the sudden and unexplained death of the master of the house.  
“Really?” she gasped, “is Mrs Stanley still here?”  
“Yes, miss,” the maid bobbed a little curtsey, “in the drawing room.”  
“Poor Lydia, and poor Aunt P,” she swept by, “I’ll just pop in and see if there’s anything I can do.”

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Phryne resisted the urge to smile at the sight of Prudence Stanley sitting in a chair, a worried expression on her face. Prudence was a short, stout woman with a surprisingly commanding presence, but now she was just worried, flustered, even.  
“Phryne, dear girl … oh goodness I told the maid to telephone and cancel,” she stood up, not much taller now she was standing, “silly child.” Phryne assumed she meant the maid, who looked scared of her own shadow.  
Phryne bent and kissed her aunt’s cheek, “Hello, Aunt P,” she patted her arm, “what happened?”  
“We really don’t know,” Prudence sat down again, “John Andrews went up to dress after a light breakfast of tea, toast and kumquat marmalade; then he appears to have just dropped dead in the bathroom. The police are there now – in fact, it’s that rather capable Inspector Robinson.”  
“The one who is still looking into mother’s disappearance?”  
“Yes, him,” Prudence pursed her lips, she didn’t like the look in her niece’s eye, she was quite a flirt, according to the letters she got from Janey. “Phryne …” the flirt in question had turned and headed out of the room, “… where are you going?”  
“To powder my nose,” she grinned, cheekily.  
“Nobody’s allowed in the bathroom!” Prudence called after her, feeling she was wasting her breath.

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“Miss,” a fresh faced constable called after her as she headed up the stairs, “miss, sorry you can’t you up there.”  
“Just need to …” she crossed her legs, “sorry, my bladder doesn’t understand …”  
The constable jumped in front of her, trying to block her way, “Let me just ask the Inspector,” he bumbled, embarrassed at the sight of a lady in obvious need of the facilities.  
Phryne watched him run down the stairs, and when he was just out of sight, she slipped into the bathroom and closed the door.   
On the floor there was a crude outline of, perhaps, a human form. She looked around and saw nothing out of place. From the outline it looked like John had been standing facing the sink, possibly ready to shave. The outline showed he was doubled up with a stomach pain, possibly? She looked at the bath, no sign he had hit the edge and sustained a bleeding head wound; there was a unit which she assumed contained bathroom supplies, soaps, flannels, maybe a small towel or two, shampoo, none of these things were visible on any of the surfaces. She opened it and found what she expected and a box of headache powders. Rather a lot, unless one was subject to frequent headaches. She pulled out a couple of little pink envelopes and pushed them into her bag. There was an urgent knock at the door and a commanding voice insisting she leave the room immediately.  
“It’s a crime scene, Miss,” the voice was rather pleasant to listen to, she thought. Deep, smooth and warm – were policemen supposed to have nice, almost musical voices?  
She checked her appearance in the mirror, repaired her lipstick – just in case – and unlocked the door. Looking back she should have flushed the lavatory, just to give some proof to her presence.  
“Your constable needs drawing lessons,” she quipped and waved at the drawing on the floor. “Inspector Robinson, I presume?” The man he had grown into intrigued her, no longer the green but terribly sweet constable.  
She held out her gloved hand to him, “Miss Phryne Fisher,” she gave him a smile that had his heart do a somersault in his chest.  
“Ah, Mrs Stanley said you were coming back,” he cleared his throat, “Miss Fisher, this is a crime scene yet to be properly processed.”  
“I’m wearing gloves,” she wiggled her fingers, “my aunt tells me you are rather capable, Inspector,” she continued, “I’m so glad, it’s been quite some time since I was in Melbourne and I am quite alone in a dangerous city.”  
Inspector Robinson had a feeling Melbourne had become a tad more dangerous with her arrival but he just held out his card, “I aim to make it less dangerous, Miss Fisher.”  
“I do like a man with a plan,” she took the card and read it, “Jack.”  
The way she clipped the ‘k’ at the end of his name did things to him that he didn’t want to think about, what had happened to the skinny kid he remembered that used to sit on the counter in the station and nibble his mother’s biscuits, breaking one in half to share with her sister?

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She hadn’t meant to become involved in the case but when she found out, through Mac that the packets contained cocaine, when she danced with a professional dancer called Sasha a rather intimate tango at the charity party that went ahead despite the death of John Andrews, that had her aunt raise her eyebrows and purse her lips, and put two and two together she found she enjoyed the puzzle. Inspector Robinson took the little maid in for questioning, Phryne knew she had nothing to do with it, the poor child was convinced electricity was going to blow up the world, that it was unnatural, so she gave her her calling card should she need help.  
Sasha was looking for the ‘King of Snow’. This elusive person had sold cocaine to his sister, got her addicted which killed her. With Phryne’s help they found who the King of Snow was, discovered a struck off doctor who was performing back street abortions that nearly led to the death of another maid who had been dismissed for stealing a silver cruet set – it was all quite convoluted she thought.  
The Inspector had followed his own line of inquiry; a steady clue driven line, but he was not able to get quite close enough to the real story, not like Miss Fisher was. Her ‘meddling’ made his head ache, it was diverting him from his goal of discovering who killed John Andrews and he didn’t think the abortion racket was linked to it, he had to deal with that as well but it was, to him, a separate case. When Phryne persuaded the maid, Dorothy Williams, to pose as a young girl who had got herself into ‘trouble’ and to ask one of Mrs Andrews guests, Madame Breda, if she knew of someone who could help her, that was when things started to come together, but all the same, he’d rather hoped she would stay out of his way.

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Dorothy had gone to Miss Fisher when Mrs Andrews dismissed her and she had nowhere to go. Phryne had discovered she was a timid little thing, who was under the thumb of her priest who told her all the rubbish about electricity and had her fearing the telephone. However, Dorothy, or Dot as she became known to Phryne, had quite a hand with a sewing needle, her invisible mending was incredible and she found herself with a new post and a better wage.  
The night it all came together Phryne had left Dot wrapped in a warm blanket with a large cup of thick, sweet cocoa and told her to ring the police if she wasn’t back by midnight. She knew it was a gamble, Dot had spent her time at the Andrews’ house avoiding the telephone like the plague, but she was sure if she told the Inspector what she was going to do he would stop her – likely clap her in irons! So she swanned off to meet Sasha, follow the lead of the cocaine distribution and found herself locked in a sauna with no access to the controls. She had discovered that the King was really the Queen of Snow, and she ran her business out of the back of the Turkish baths, together with Madam Breda who controlled the abortion racket. It was all rather sordid, but while she was thinking this she was telling Sasha to take off his clothes because of the heat, and she disrobed, taking off a rather expensive outfit and wrapping herself in a towel. Sasha collapsed onto the seat with a towel covering his buttocks, while she wondered if Dot would have the nerve to call the police. She had sent the cabbies she had got into the habit of using to tell Robinson what she was doing and where she was but he just sat back in his chair and regarded the two communist sympathisers with some distrust.  
“Sir!” his constable, Hugh Collins ran into the office, “it’s Miss Williams, sir, Miss Fisher, she’s in trouble!”  
Jack couldn’t leave that, in many ways he wanted to get to know this adult Phryne Fisher, see how much she had changed over the years.

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In the sauna Phryne looked round for any way to turn off the heat and steam. She slapped Sasha on the buttocks, telling him not to go to sleep, but it was to no avail – he was practically unconscious – so much for him rescuing a maiden in distress! She found, under the bench, a trap leading to the pipes and a wheel to control the distribution of the steam. It was hot, too hot to touch with the naked hand, so she removed the towel that was covering her modesty and used it to protect her skin. She managed to turn the steam off, or at least stop the flow, not really thinking what effect this would have on the pressure and wrapped the towel round herself once again. She was struggling with feelings of light-headedness and found using a hairpin to pick the lock wasn’t working. Suddenly the door opened and she found herself facing the top of a man’s legs. She looked up, and grinned.  
“Hello, Inspector,” she breathed, “sorry, I’m not looking my best at the moment.”  
Jack Robinson thought she looked adorable, divine, but he told himself he was a professional copper and just cleared his throat. He held out his hand to her and she seemed to unfold like a cat until she was standing a full head shorter than him, but upright and apparently unharmed. He let her dry herself off and replace her clothes while he arranged for Sasha to be taken to the hospital and checked over for any injuries.  
“It was Lydia Andrews,” she told him as they left the baths, “she’s the cocaine dealer. Her husband was not involved, contrary to popular belief the appearance she gave of being hopeless with business was more him than her. I did wonder,” she frowned, “after all Aunt Prudence kept going on about how good she was at coming up with ways to raise money for the various charity boards they sat on together - so being hopeless with business didn’t really sit right.”

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The subsequent explosion of the Turkish Baths, caused apparently by the out of control pressure in the pipes, left the surrounding area with quite a mess to clear up. Jack mentioned it to Phryne when she was summoned to give her statement of events, but he couldn’t really blame her and although she liked the facilities the idea that it was just a front for dealing drugs didn’t sit well with her. She wasn’t a habitual user of narcotics, she had tried them in the past but she got her highs from other, more physical, activities.  
“Andrews was poisoned,” he took the signed papers off her, “arsenic.”  
“Probably in the sugar in his morning tea,” Phryne shrugged, “Lydia didn’t take sugar, at least she didn’t when we had tea together.”  
“Ah,” he wondered, “that would do it.”  
“Poor Aunt Prudence,” Phryne sighed, “she liked Lydia, she was so good at getting money out of people for the charity boards.”  
“Hm,” was all he could think of to add.

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Feeling she had a talent for detective work Phryne set herself up as a private Lady Detective. When she announced this to Jack and Constable Collins in the restaurant at the Windsor, Inspector Robinson practically choked on his champagne – a glass of which had been thrust into his hand when he arrived to tell her the case was officially closed. Collins’ jaw dropped and Mac grinned. Inspector Robinson looked around the ensemble gathered there and noticed the two communist cabbies and Miss Williams – was this what he was up against? Miss Fisher was totally untrained, but even he had to admit she was quite clever and her contacts could be useful, but allowing her into his cases could prove awkward. The Deputy Commissioner was his ex-father in law and he was known to be something of a misogynist, Jack’s thoughts on the matter of her being a detective were somewhat jumbled, he would have to see how it panned out.

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At first Miss Fisher seemed to content herself with arranging to buy a house, a lovely Italianate house on the esplanade in the St Kilda area of the city so Jack didn’t see much of her. She had to have some alterations – indoor plumbing, redecorating, furnishing and staff – she would need someone to cook and clean for her, so she went to an agency and set out the skills her new housekeeper would need.  
“Will you require a maid, Miss Fisher?” the woman sat poised with her pen ready to take down the particulars.  
“I have a companion,” Phryne drew her lips together and thought, Dot was perfect, she could mend and remove stains from her expensive garments, lay out an outfit for the day or the activity of the hour, kept an eye on the level of her cosmetics and toiletries, “she does everything for me, so, just a housekeeper who is prepared to answer the door – perhaps I shall need someone else once I am settled, but for now …”  
“Very well,” the woman hummed, “I think I have just the person for you, that is if you don’t mind it being a man?”  
“How qualified is he?”  
“Very, highly, he and his late wife ran only the best establishments, his references are impeccable.”  
“Well, let’s give it a go, shall we?” Phryne grinned, “I shall be out of town for a couple of days, give him the address and tell him to get started, settle in and stock the cupboards.”  
The woman raised an eyebrow as Phryne swept out then reached for the telephone.  
“Mr Butler?”  
On the other end of the line Tobias Butler listened while the agent described his new employer as a spinster and what his first task would be.  
“Not sure if it will suit you, Tobias,” the agent admitted, “but I’m sure you will be able to rise to the task. She expects you to ‘stock the cupboards’ and is independently wealthy so seek out the vintner you used last time and cultivate the butchers and grocers in the area. Good luck, I shall ring you in a couple of weeks to see how you are getting on. Name’s Miss Fisher and she has a companion, though she didn’t mention her name. 221B The Esplanade, St Kilda.”  
Tobias Butler looked round the small flat he had been renting since his last post ended. St Kilda was an affluent area, there were some beautiful buildings on the Esplanade and a spinster – it would be nice to live out his days as butler/housekeeper to a spinster, quiet, he thought, set in her ways and the salary on offer would enable him to set aside a little something for his retirement … yes it sounded very much like they would suit each other. He packed.

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Phryne hadn’t planned to become involved in a case, a murder at that, she was just taking a latish train to Ballarat to collect her new car, a Hispano-Suiza, that she had taken great delight in describing to her sister in her latest letter, as well as the house, Dot and the two cabbies. To Janey, there in Yorkshire, it sounded like she was having a wonderful time, though she worried about the detecting side of her life. She had talked to Teddy about this and they decided that perhaps in the New Year they would take the children to see their Aunt Phryne, who they missed, and spend some time in Melbourne. She wrote of their plans and hoped to see her soon.  
“Do take care, Phryne, darling,” Janey wrote, “with this business of yours. Eddie wants to know if you carry a gun – you don’t do you?”  
When Phryne read this, after the conclusion of her latest case, she grinned, Little Eddie was in for a treat!

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Tobias Butler was unsure as to why the two cabbies were grinning when he said it would be nice to work for a spinster, hinting he thought it would be a quiet life. The drank the lemonade he brought out for them after they had brought over Miss Fisher’s things from the hotel while she was away, and choked on it when he passed his comment. It was when she arrived home with a client, from the train, and a possible suspect, aged around fourteen and told him to watch the girl, said she may well be infested and to be careful with the luggage, her pistol was there and may still be loaded.  
“Thank you for the warning, Miss,” he called as she headed into the house, “well, Tobias,” he continued talking to himself, “this may be more interesting than you thought.” It also helped him understand why the cabbies laughed.

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Phryne settled in, she liked Mr Butler, he seemed to be able to read her mind. He, in turn, found her a breath of fresh air. Her companion and he got on famously as he joined Miss Fisher in drawing out the painfully shy and diffident young girl and he found the arrival of the two cabbies, Albert Johnson and Cecil Yates amusing – they seemed to be able to smell the kettle and the pot of tea, the fresh scones and biscuits.

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Inspector Robinson had been warned by the Deputy Commissioner not to get involved with Miss Fisher and the case of the missing women.  
“That case is closed, Jack,” he scowled, “we couldn’t find them, they likely ran away to a better life, or just left their violent husbands. Put the files away, there are new cases to deal with … and you can keep her away from those, too!”  
Jack had given up trying to tell him that Margaret Fisher would not have left the girls with her husband if she truly had run away. Anyway George Sanderson was not the most diligent of coppers – he could see that now. He slipped the case file into his briefcase and decided a quick visit to Miss Fisher was in order. After all, she had asked – in passing.

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“Inspector Robinson to see you, Miss,” Mr Butler opened the door to the parlour.  
“Oh,” she looked surprised, “how lovely. Show him in, Mr Butler.”  
“Very well, Miss.”  
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Miss Fisher,” the Inspector looked round the room took in the cool colours, modern furniture and beautiful grand piano.  
“Not at all, Inspector,” she smiled, “drink?”  
She had already stepped to the drinks table and lifted a decanter of what appeared to be whisky.  
“Er, well …”  
“Not on duty, are we?” she teased.  
“No, thank you a drink would be lovely.”  
They sat on the chairs and he sipped his drink, a rather fine single malt.  
“So, Jack,” she leant back and observed him, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”  
He put his drink on the small pie-crust table between them and lifted his briefcase.  
“Well, you asked about your mother’s disappearance …” he pulled out the file, “… and the Deputy Commissioner …”  
“… wants you to close it, end your investigation.”  
“Yes, but … you deserve to know the truth. I can’t believe a woman like your mother would just leave her husband and not take the children with her. So … here is the file, best if you have it …” he passed over the bland light brown folder with dog-eared corners and a tea cup stain on one corner.  
“Does this mean you are giving up?” she frowned, flicking through the old pages with the fading ink and type.  
“No, no that’s not what I mean, at all …” he sat forward, “I want to help you find the truth, I want you and your sister to find peace. I can’t imagine how you feel, no knowing how or why she left …”  
“There’s a little hole, here,” she pointed to her heart, “my mother tried her best, she loved us – me and Janey – and seeing Janey with her children; did Aunt Prudence tell you she has two, a boy and a girl?”  
“She did, I ask – asked – after you, when she came in to see if I had got any further. She said she had named the girl after you and your mother …”  
“Poor child,” Phryne laughed, “we call her Megsy, seeing Janey with them makes me wonder how mother would have been, as a grandmother. Father is quite a lovely grandpapa, the children love him and now he has remarried and has a boy, Bertie, quite the little pest when he wants to be. Father says he is rather like me, Abigail, that’s father’s new wife, says that is no bad thing – if only she knew.”  
“What will you do, if you find out what happened?”  
“I don’t know, I suppose that would depend on whether the person who abducted them is still alive – then I suppose I shall expect retribution. So … Inspector, have you eaten yet?”  
“Er, no, I was on my way home,” he cleared his throat and looked embarrassed.  
She got up from her seat and went to the door, opening it she called through to Mr Butler to set an extra place …  
“Hungry policeman ..!”  
Jack didn’t hear the reply and he didn’t expect to be fed. As he said, he was on his way home to whatever was left in his kitchen. He was able to cook and feed himself quite adequately but all of a sudden he had no idea what he had planned for his evening meal.

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The meal was delicious, the wine that accompanied it was superb and during it all they went over the file, the statements he had taken, the photographs of the area the women had been taken from, dates, times …  
“Did you know any of the other women, Miss Fisher?” he asked, pushing his dessert plate out of the way.  
“Mrs Lindeman, she and mother used to tend each other’s bruises; her husband was as bad as my father when he had had a drink. I didn’t know the other two.” She closed her eyes momentarily and visualised the scenes so much a part of her early childhood.  
“I’m sorry, Miss Fisher,” he sighed, “this is all I have, nobody saw anything, and no traces … I don’t know where to go from here.”  
She could see he was disappointed in the investigation but also understood he had been hampered, first by the lack of evidence, then the war and the lack of support from his superior officer.  
But this story was not over, and she was going to start finishing it.  
“Well, Inspector, as we are in cahoots over this you’d better call me Phryne …”  
“…and you can continue to call me Jack, after all just about everybody else does,” and he raised his glass in salute to their joint venture.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that has eluded me for some time. At last Phryne can find closure.

Phryne was quite sure where she should start in the search for the truth about what happened to her mother. Reading Jack’s file she could see he had done what he could, with limited resources and no support from any senior officers at the time.   
“Where will you start, Miss?” Dot was sitting with her mistress in the parlour, the file was open between them and Phryne had a notebook ready to chart her way through the investigation.  
“I always think to get to where you want to be, you should start at the beginning,” Phryne smiled, “so I am going back to where it all started, I am going to take a trip to Collingwood, to my old house and see if I can get anything out of the residents – assuming they were there at the time.”  
“The Inspector couldn’t.” Dot reminded her.  
“No one in Collingwood will talk to the police, then or now,” Phryne hummed, “but they may talk to me.”

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The streets of Collingwood had hardly changed since Phryne was a child, she thought. The Raggers had dropped her off at the end of one street and were poised to pick her up at the end of another, once she had finished. She wandered towards her old home, stepping over puddles that were not necessarily rainwater, past groups of gossiping housewives and children skipping and playing hopscotch and clapping games. A few men whistled as she passed, a couple made lewd suggestions but she had a reply that had them blush as she made a comment on his ‘tackle’ in a delightfully broad local twang.  
She stopped at the doorstep of a grubby terraced house, the door had been replaced at some point but was still all peeling paint and splinters where it had been kicked at the bottom. The current occupant obviously did her best to keep the place neat, the windows had been wiped and there were lace curtains hanging there.   
The curtains of the house next door twitched and after a minute or two the front door opened enough for a face to peer out.  
“Can I help you, dearie?” the woman whispered. Older, greyer even more careworn than twenty years ago, Mrs Evans had always tried to be kind to the Fisher sisters and when she had peered out of the window she thought she might know the well dressed young lady in the street.  
“Mrs Evans,” Phryne smiled and held out her hand, “it’s me, Phryne.”  
“Well, as I live and breathe,” Mrs Evans stepped into the street, wiping her hands on her apron and taking Phryne’s gloved hand in hers, “Phryne Fisher – gone up in the world, an’t you dear?”  
“Indeed,” Phryne nodded, “how are you?”  
“Oh, nothing much changes with me, Phryne – sorry Miss Fisher – only the years.”  
“How’s Lucy?” Lucy was Mrs Evans daughter, around the same age as Phryne, though the girls couldn’t be said to be close friends.  
“Working, up at a big house in Geelong,” she folded her arms, “she’s happy, well as happy as you can get at someone else’s beck and call.”  
Phryne hoped Dot was happy at her ‘beck and call’.  
“So, what brings you back here?” Mrs Evans continued.  
“I’m trying to find out what happened to mother,” Phryne looked up and down the street, “she never came back, never went over to England with us.”  
“We always wondered where you went, ‘til the papers came out, lately, about you and your detectin’,” Mrs Evans pursed her lips, “so, your mother wasn’t with you?”  
“No, we left before she was found, and then – well, although a young copper tried to find her he had to do it on his own time, and with the war and everything – he’s not been able to solve the case. So, here I am, wondering if anyone remembers anything from that night.” Phryne hummed.  
“Well, you know how it is round here, no one takes notice of the night time noises, the calls and shrieks,” Mrs Evans sighed, “I doubt you’ll find anyone, but Mrs Carson and Mrs Lewis still live across the way.”  
“You heard nothing?”  
She shook her head, “No, not that I remember. Now, how is that little sister of yours?”  
“Married, two children, Megsy and Eddie, father remarried too, and has a boy, Bertie – proper little pest,” Phryne smiled and pulled a photograph of Janey and her family, “see here. They may come to Melbourne this year, on a visit.”  
“War?” Mrs Evans pointed at Teddy’s missing arm.  
“Uh huh,” Phryne nodded, “she opened up part of the house for convalescing veterans, he was one of them.”  
“And you, m’dear? Married?”  
“I served, nursing, but no, I’m not married.” Phryne noticed she didn’t ask about her father, but then, why would she, she would only remember him as a drunkard and abusive. “Well,” she put the photograph back into her bag, “I’ll go and see if Mrs Carson and Mrs Lewis remember anything. If you do ....” she handed her one of her cards, “I’d be much obliged if you could let me know.”  
Mrs Evans studied the card then put it into the pocket of her apron. They bid each other good bye but Phryne was sure she would hear no more.  
Neither Mrs Carson nor Mrs Lewis could add anything to what Mrs Evans had told her, so on balance, it was probably not that Jack, as a police officer, couldn’t get anything out of the residents of Collingwood, it was just that nobody actually knew anything. She sighed and carried on to meet the Raggers and go home. As she turned a corner she was nearly bowled over by a lad, no more than twelve she thought, being chased by older boys waving knives and cudgels.  
“Hey!” she caught his arm, “what ...?”  
“Jeez, Miss,” the boy gasped, “Col’s after me, says I ...”  
“Come here you little nark!” a lanky youth bellowed, though where he got the voice from that scrawny chest, Phryne would never know. She stepped in front of the boy and blocked the one she assumed was Col, with her shoulder, standing with her feet apart enough to maintain balance.  
“Give him here,” Col tried to reach round to the boy, “he dobbed me in to the coppers!”  
“With reason?” Phryne raised an eyebrow, cool as a cucumber the boy would say later.  
“What’s it to you?” Col glared at her.  
“Jus’ askin’, is all,” she folded her arms, “Phryne Fisher,” she held out her hand, “Col, I assume.”  
“The Phryne Fisher?” the boy behind her gasped, “blimey, you’re famous round here, Miss.”  
“Am I indeed,” she hummed, “well, I wonder why that would be?”  
“You’re from Collingwood, a lady detective, you carry a gold thirty eight ... can I see?” his eyes wide with hope.  
“Not on your nelly!” she laughed, “you are ...?”  
“Paddy, miss,” he wiped his hand down his torn trousers and offered it to her, “Paddy McGill. What’re you doin’ down this way?”  
“Looking for information,” she admitted shaking his hand, “but you would be too young to know anything.”  
“Says who?” he put his fists on his hips.  
“Me, that’s who,” she shook her head, “it’s an old story.”  
“How old?”  
“Hey!” Col pushed her shoulder, “what’s your game? Hand him over.”  
Phryne grabbed his wrist, expertly twisted it and the next thing he knew he was flat on his back with all his mates standing there gaping. Then one laughed, and then another, until all but Phryne and Paddy were laughing at him having been tossed by a girl.  
“On your way, Col,” a distinctive deep voice cut through the laughter, “I don’t think you’re going to beat anyone up today.”  
“Hello, Jack,” she smiled, “what brings you here?”  
“Miss Williams was worried you hadn’t returned yet, so, as I was passing ...” he offered her his arm.  
“A likely story,” she smiled but slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow.  
“So, what information you after, Miss Fisher?” Paddy nudged her.  
“I want to know if anyone heard anything the night my mother disappeared, August 3rd 1911. As I said Paddy, you are too young to remember.”  
“Still, Miss, now you’ve been down here, and I bet askin’ questions, there’ll be talk,” he shoved his hands in his pockets.  
“Ok, well, if you hear anything you can find me on the Esplanade in St Kilda, number 221B. Think you can find it?”  
“Mebbe,” he shrugged.  
“Alright, here,” she pressed a couple of coins into his hand, “get yourself a pie.”  
“Ta,” he grinned, “be seein’ you!” and he ran off back down from whence he had come.  
“Don’t think you’ll see him again,” Jack offered as they wandered back towards his car.  
“Probably not, but a pie won’t break the bank, Jack.” She sighed.  
“I sent the Raggers off,” he opened the door of his car, “would you like a lift?”  
“Thank you, Inspector,” she climbed in, “very kind of you.”

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Phryne wondered if it would be worthwhile trying Collingwood again.   
“It’s so long ago, Miss,” Dot sighed, “surely no one will still be there.”  
“Three neighbours were still there,” Phryne reminded her of the story she told of her visit to her old home.  
“I know, Miss, but ...”  
“I know, but it’s the only line I think I can take, at the moment – oh, damn and blast it!” she huffed.  
“What about the families of the other women that disappeared?” Dot suggested.  
“Left the area,” Phryne shrugged, “told Jack they wanted nothing more to do with it, that it was obvious they didn’t want to be found and asked him to stop bothering them.”

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For several days, in between helping Jack clear up a couple of cases, Phryne did take short trips down ‘memory lane’. It wasn’t pleasant, and she didn’t learn anything though she did bump into Paddy on occasion. She did wonder if he was watching for her, was that why he would appear at her side seemingly out of nowhere? Never mind that he usually got a pie out of it, he was there pointing out older residents and teasing her that she needed protection.  
But ...

A frantic knocking at the front door, early one morning had Mr Butler waking her and telling her young Paddy was there, wanting her help, his brother was in trouble. She blinked in the light of day, it had been a long night at a club and she hadn’t been in bed more than an hour, and told him she would be down directly.  
“Keep him in the kitchen, Mr B,” she yawned, “he’ll probably need feeding.”  
“Very well, Miss,” Mr Butler backed out of the door and went back downstairs to the kitchen where Paddy was pacing up and down.  
“Miss Fisher asked me to tell you she would be down directly, young man, and suggested you might like some breakfast?”  
“Right, er, yes ... thank you,” Paddy sniffed. “Sorry, it’s just Ned, he’s never done anything like this, he wouldn’t.”  
“I’m sure Miss Fisher will be able to help, Master Paddy,” he smiled kindly, “now, bacon, eggs?”  
Oh, yes, that would be just bonzer,” Paddy sat down at the table and watched as Mr Butler fried the bacon and eggs, added a tomato to the pan and a piece of bread to the new toasting machine., then set about making tea and coffee – the coffee was for Miss Fisher, strong and black. He also mixed her a drink with a raw egg yolk in tomato juice – Paddy was quite amazed when Miss Fisher entered the kitchen, perfectly attired for a day detecting, stirred the drink with a celery stick, then downed it in one, with a shudder.  
“Your coffee, Miss.” Mr Butler poured an inky brew into a cup and handed it to her as she sat opposite Paddy.  
“Now, Paddy,” she hummed, “Mr Butler says your brother is in trouble.”  
“Ned, he’s older than me, a Bottle Top boy.”  
“Ah,” she nodded wisely and sipped the coffee. “What happened?”  
“The coppers have him, Miss ...”  
“Inspector Robinson hasn’t said anything,” she hummed and frowned.  
“Who?”  
“The Inspector who met me in Collingwood the day I swept Col off his feet,” she smiled.  
“Oh no, Miss, ain’t him,” Paddy shook his head, “some other copper ...”  
“City South?”  
He nodded, “Last night.”  
“Ah, I expect Inspector Robinson was off duty, who’s on nights at the moment, Dot?” She turned to her companion.  
“Er, not sure, Miss, shall I call the station?”  
“Please, ask them if they have a ...” she turned to Paddy and raised an eyebrow.  
“Ned, er Edward ...” he gulped.  
“... Edward McGill in the cells.”  
“Yes, Miss,” Dot left and went to ring the station, she liked calling the station, she usually got to speak to Hugh Collins who she was shyly taken with.  
Phryne picked up her fork and absent-mindedly speared a piece of pancake Mr Butler had set down in front of her. She bit into it and hummed to herself, whether in appreciation of the sweet morsel, or in thought at Ned’s arrest, nobody knew, still she was thinking and that was a good thing.  
“Well, Paddy,” she said, finally, “you best tell me everything.”  
“Oh, er ...”  
“Everything, Paddy,” she warned, “if I don’t know where he usually goes, who he runs with, what he gets up to, then I won’t be able to help you. You see, any one of these things could add to the reason he has been arrested.”  
“Yeah,” Paddy bit the inside of his cheek, “well, he runs with the Bottle Top boys, I can’t, Col won’t let me, says I’m too young and I know a lady detective so ...”  
“You might rat on him,” Phryne shrugged, “Col is not a good one to run with, Paddy, he’s spends quite a lot of time answering Inspector Robinson’s questions.”  
“Right, well, ok,” and he proceeded to tell her that some of the boys did odd jobs for the lady that ran a welfare van and she checked them for lice and ‘stuff’. They took things to and from the hospital to a chap with an odd face.  
“What do you mean by ‘odd’?” Phryne asked, sipping a second cup of coffee.  
“It’s damaged, on one side,” Paddy frowned, “I think it’s something to do with the war.”  
“I see.” Phryne knew Mac had something to do with injured soldiers and revolutionary techniques for repairing damage to the human body. Her aunt, Mrs Stanley sat on the board at the hospital so she had two ways of finding out further information.  
“Anyway, I don’t rightly know what Ned was doin’ for Col, last night, but he got caught outside a big house a ways from Collingwood. It’s been boarded up for ages, since before I was born, and Ned, probably Col too,” his eyes widened, “they found him with a body, a boy’s body,” he frowned, “that’s not good, is it, Miss?”  
“No, Paddy, it isn’t,” she hummed, “but it doesn’t meant Ned had anything to do with it, he could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”  
“I bloody hope so,” Paddy huffed, “sorry for the language Miss,” he looked down.  
“No worries, Paddy, I’ve heard worse.”  
“Miss,” Dot came back into the kitchen. “Hugh says Ned is in the cells, he won’t say anything but the report says he was caught squatting down by the body. It was tucked into the undergrowth by the fence. The Inspector says if you’ve a mind to call he’d be happy to see you.”  
“He would, would he?” Phryne shrugged and stood up, “come on Paddy, let’s go and see what Ned knows.”

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Ned maintained he knew nothing, he’d literally just stumbled over the body, he knew who it was and he wouldn’t kill a fellow Bottle Topper.  
“So, why were you so far away from Collingwood?” Jack tapped his pen on the table, “and how did you get there?”  
“I walked,” Ned folded his arms, “no other way for the likes of me.”  
“And ... why were you there?” Phryne took over the questioning, but Ned still looked mutinous.  
“Look, Ned,” she leant over to him, “we need to know, if you want to stand some chance of getting out of here. Why and who sent you?”  
Ned scowled.  
“We know you run with Col Richards and the Bottle Top boys,” Phryne continued, “and we know Col indulges in a bit of breaking and entering, thieving ... so did he send you to break into that house?”  
“There’s always been talk it’s haunted,” Ned sniffed, “Col sent Badger – that’s the boy that was killed – to check the place, see if it was easy to get into. But he never came back, so he sent me. I didn’t get to the house ‘cos I found Badger first.”  
“Were these in Badger’s pockets?” Jack put a selection of wedding rings, cheap bits of jewellery chain and two silver candlesticks that were badly tarnished on the table.  
“Those,” he pointed to the rings and chains, “were in his pockets, the candlesticks were beside him, but dropped not placed careful like.” He thought for a moment, “Badger was scared, shiverin’ and shakin’ before he went, he believed the stories ...”  
“Did you?”  
“Don’t believe in ghosts, Miss,” he shook his head, “but I still didn’t want to go in.”  
“How was Badger killed, Jack?” Phryne considered the boy before her and felt he had nothing to do with Badger’s death.  
“He had a stab wound but I’m still waiting for the coroner’s report,” Jack reached for the proceeds of the robbery but Phryne stopped him, she lifted each ring in turn and examined it.  
“These are very ordinary rings, Jack, not particularly good quality, except for this one,” she held a wider ring up, “and there’s an inscription inside this one.”  
He passed her a small magnifying glass he kept in his inside jacket pocket and waited while she tried to read the words.  
“Not words,” she cleared her throat, “monograms – ME and HG and a date,” she put the ring down and turned away from them. Jack thought he saw her wipe a tear from her eye, then she turned round, straightened her shoulders and spoke:  
“Margaret Elizabeth and Henry George, the date is the date of their wedding – my parents – I’m sure this is mother’s wedding ring. Can we go to the morgue, I’d like to see the injuries on Badger ... Mac’s the coroner ...”

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Ned was taken back down to the cells and Paddy back to Wardlow, while Jack and Phryne went to the morgue. Paddy wanted to go to the morgue too, but even Phryne thought that was a bit too much for a child.

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“Causes of death, doctor?” Jack hummed, staring down at the slight body on the table.  
“So, his name is Badger?” she looked at them for confirmation, “the stab wound did him no favours, but he would have survived if he had got treatment in time.”  
“But he didn’t, he was just left to die.” Phryne sighed sadly.  
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Jack took Hugh to search the area Badger was found for a weapon, a means of entry to the house and anything else they could find. Phryne wanted to go, as her mother’s wedding ring was in Badger’s pocket but Jack asked her to stand by first.  
“I will tell you if there is anything for you, there,” he soothed, “but just for now, Miss Fisher, let my men do their jobs, please.”  
She pouted.

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“Must have been grand, once upon a time,” Hugh muttered as he stared up at the front of the mansion house.  
“Indeed,” Jack nodded, “well, let’s see if anyone is in, shall we?”  
“D’ye think anyone still lives there, sir?” Hugh headed up to the door and turned the handle. He pushed the door and the rotting wood gave way. Light flooded the hallway, dust motes hung in the air, ahead of them, at the bottom of the grand staircase was a display of some sort with plants at each corner that had died some time ago and hung dried and brown over the sides of their pots. Hugh and Jack’s feet were the first to leave prints in the dust for years as they headed up to the display.  
“Sir,” Hugh frowned and pointed, “is that what I think it is?”  
Jack left him standing and went to examine the site. He nodded, “A body, Collins,” he touched it with his pen, “long dead, desiccated, dried out, spike through the heart. No signs of a struggle, looks like he just fell onto it. See here,” he pointed to the arms and waited for Hugh to join him, “arms spread wide as if in supplication.”  
“He did it himself?” Hugh’s eyes widened.  
“This,” Jack waved his hands over the model, “is a model of the solar system, based on the Egyptian Ptolemy’s version, with the earth at the centre, if I’m not mistaken.”  
“And you rarely are, sir,” Hugh complimented him on his learning.  
“Hmm,” Jack shrugged, “that’s as may be, Hugh, but why, and what and who?”  
Hugh pushed his helmet back and scratched his head.  
“Right, Collins, let’s get to it, we’ll start in the rooms down here, then we’ll see what’s upstairs.”  
They split up and each took a room on the ground floor. Everything was covered in dust, moths had got at the furnishings and drapes, rodents too, Jack thought. Hugh called him through to the music room, he had admired the grand piano, the vases and mirrors, the furniture but when he went to examine the windows he found one was broken. The glass lay on the floor, that still attached to the frame had blood on it Could this be how Badger had gained entry and stabbed himself with the glass as he slid through? Footprints told as much.  
“Here,” Jack held out an evidence bag, “let’s see if this matches the wound in Badger’s side. If it is how he got in, and how he was injured then it could be just a case of misadventure – he could have become tired from the loss of blood, dizzy and just lay down for a rest, hiding in the foliage.” He used his gloves to protect his hands and broke off the glass. “I wonder if those are his footprints at the side of the stairs, barely noticeable but they are there, they’re about the same size as these. I haven’t found anything else in the other rooms, the kitchen cupboards are bare, everything is tidied away as if all was prepared for.” He inhaled, coughed and motioned Hugh to follow him, “upstairs, Collins, then we shall call the coroner, and have this place gone over with an even more fine tooth comb.”  
“Will you let Miss Fisher come, sir?” Hugh trotted after his senior officer.  
“Maybe, depends on what we find upstairs, though if this is something to do with her mother’s disappearance the possibilities are endless. What did you notice about the room you looked at, with the piano?”  
“Well, sir,” Hugh considered this, “the room was well ordered, things seemed to be in the right place, the piano would have light over the keys for the pianist, the chairs and couches were set about for listening to the music, the piano was set away from the fireplace ...”  
“A beautiful instrument, Collins, made to be played and I bet it had a lovely tone.”  
“Sir, yessir,” Collins wondered how much Jack knew about piano playing. Jack didn’t enlighten him.

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Upstairs was a dusty and dim as they could expect. There were the continuing footsteps from the stairs, that they still thought must be Badger’s, heading into and out of each bedroom. In each room, named with the compass points, they found the same thing; the footsteps led to the dressing table, dust had been moved and the mark of a ring had been disturbed.  
“Must have been where he got one of the rings,” Jack mused. He looked around, there was a shape in the bed and his heart sank as he imagined what he would find when he lifted the cover.  
Slowly and very carefully so as not to disturb any evidence he lifted the once brightly decorated bed cover to find another underneath. This was a sheet with an old dark stain over where the liver of the body would have been. But, as he feared, the body was dried like the one over the solar system, the liver had been removed but whether that was pre or post-mortem he couldn’t say. He replaced the covers and made a note in his notebook.   
“Doesn’t look like the lad came over to the bed, sir, only our prints ...”  
“So it would seem, Collins, so, I wonder if there are more bodies in the other rooms.”  
“I don’t see anything else being taken, sir, just the ring.”  
They found similar in two of the other bedrooms, footprints over to a vanity unit, the evidence of a ring having been lifted from the dust and a body under the covers on the bed, each with some organ removed. Jack thought the worst was the brain; the top of the head had been removed and replaced, kept in place with a bandage. The last room they went into was ‘East’. Again the footprints to the vanity unit, but the lifting of the ring had left a clearer mark, as if the ring was wider than the others. Jack remembered that the one Phryne was sure was her mother’s was of a wider style – so would the body in the bed be that of Margaret, Baroness Fisher, and if so, what organ would he have taken. So far it was liver, spleen and brain – if this was a cult of some sort he would be surprised if he didn’t find her heart missing.  
“Two candlesticks missing, sir,” Hugh called over from the mantle-piece. “All the others had a pair of candlesticks on the mantle, I can see where two have been taken.”  
“Right,” Jack lifted the covers and just as he thought there was the body, without the heart. “Wonder what he did with the organs he removed.”  
“Sir?”  
“Obviously, Collins,” he sighed, “this is some sort of cult, or religion that requires four specific organs from four willing participants to enable whatever he, downstairs, was trying to do.”  
“D’you think he did it, sir?”  
“Well, in the absence of any other person in the house, and I’m damn sure he took his own life, I’m sure this is the act of some religious fanatic. The women had to have been given some sort of drug so they wouldn’t fight him when he took his knife to them. Unfortunately, with the state of decay it’s going to be hard to identify each one, though, given there is less mess around where the ring would have been on the table, I’m minded to consider this is Miss Fisher’s mother – the Baroness.” Jack replaced the covers and folded his arms. “I think they lived in some comfort, though, not that that will be any comfort to Miss Fisher, and I think the model has something to do with all this. I need to consult an astronomer on that, but, for now, the bodies need to go to the morgue, the house needs to be thoroughly searched and I need to go and see Miss Fisher.” His heart sank at the thought of telling her he may have found her mother’s body and that she would want to see her.

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Jack didn’t have to go far. Unable to contain her curiosity and her desperate need to find out what had happened to her mother, first, and how Badger had died, Phryne had found out where the house was and was sitting in the car waiting.  
Jack wasn’t surprised, really, but he was glad she hadn’t snuck in behind him and Hugh. She got out of the car and went to stand just inside the rusty gates.  
“Hello, Jack,” she sighed, “sorry, I was ...”  
“Impatient? Curious? Hello, Phryne, and no, before you ask, I am not surprised.” He took her hand and gave it just a little squeeze.  
“You’ve found something, haven’t you?” she smiled softly, “but it’s not good, is it?”  
“How...?”  
“You never take my hand where someone might see,” she stepped closer, “so it must be awful. You’ve found her, haven’t you?”  
“Phryne ... we ...we can’t be sure, it’s been a long time ...”  
“Nearly twenty years.”  
He put his hands on her shoulders, “we need to talk about this.”  
“No, Jack, we don’t,” she tried to move out of his grasp, “I need to see.”  
“Phryne ... first, at least let me explain ...”  
“Sir ...”  
Jack rolled his eyes at the interruption.  
“You go on to the station, Collins,” he cleared his throat, “organise the morgue, and a team to come and do a thorough fingertip search of the place, “I’ll hitch a lift back with Miss Fisher, if she doesn’t mind,” he raised his eye brows at Phryne and she nodded.   
They watched him go then Jack put his hand back on her arm.  
“Phryne, it’s not just one body, in there ... one could be your mother ...”  
“How many?” she whispered.  
“Five, all told, and it looks like Badger broke in through a window and it was a piece of glass that stabbed him.”  
“Five?!”  
He nodded, “Four women and a man ... the women have had one organ removed.”  
“Will you let me see?”  
“Yes, but I need to be with you, and I need you to know if you want to leave, at any time ... Phryne, I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t be escorting you over a crime scene ...”  
“I know, Jack, but as you aren’t even supposed to be investigating this business ...”  
“I came here to investigate Badger’s death, if the two cases happen to meet ...” he offered her his arm. 

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Everything Jack was doing was completely wrong, if he went by the police handbook and his training, but his instinct told him he had to involve her from the beginning or she would charge in, like a freight train, and charming as she was she would hit the buffers – hard.  
“Dear heaven,” she sneezed, “it’s so dusty.”  
“Yeah, well ...” he shrugged.   
“Sorry, that was silly of me, of course it would be dusty, it’s a shame, it must have been a lovely house – in its day. So, what do we have?”  
“Well, all the downstairs rooms are beautifully furnished, under the dust; there’s a piano, a lovely grand, in that room,” he pointed to the left, “a study, morning room, all the usual places you would expect to find in a house like this – except for this,” he indicated the solar model, “based on the Egyptian Ptolemy’s model with the earth at the centre ...”  
“... but Ptolemy didn’t have a body on his,” Phryne walked round to where the body was slumped over the model. “It looks like he ...”  
“... just fell onto the spike.” Jack finished for her. “That’s what we thought,” he shrugged, “some kind of religious cult that requires self sacrifice.”  
“And the model is at the centre of it?”  
“It looks like it, but I need to know when this happened, and I think the model stopped the day he did this.”  
“How will we find out?”   
“We, Miss Fisher?” he watched her.  
“Hm,” she shrugged. “So, where do we go now?”  
“I thought back to City South ...”  
“Now, Jack, I know I am not going to like what I see, but it’s now or later, because I will see her.” She folded her arms, her bravado covering her fear, her absolute dread of what awaited her.  
“Right, well, Phryne,” he offered her his arm, again, “I will take you to the one we think is your mother, based on the space on the dressing table left by a ring. The ring was larger, wider, perhaps than the others, in that Badger was able to pick it up without disturbing the dust as much as he did with the others.”  
“Oh, I suppose that could happen,” she mused as they headed up the stairs, “are these his footprints?”  
“We think so, the bigger ones are ours,” he smiled sadly, “obviously.”  
“Of course.” They said no more until they stood on the landing, with the four doors, closed again.  
“Compass points,” he indicated the plaques on the doors, “East is where we are heading.”  
“There were four plants by the solar model,” she observed, sure he would have noticed this, “do you think they are significant?”  
“Without further investigation I couldn’t say,” he hummed, “but it could be so.” He put his hand on the door handle, “Phryne, before we go in, I must warn you, again, it is not a pretty sight; are you sure you still want to go in, to see?”  
Deep down she wanted to flee out into the sunlight, but she had come this far and she had to know, she had to, she couldn’t back down, not now she had come this far. She took a deep breath, coughed, and nodded.  
She stood in the doorway and looked around. The layer of dust obscured what she thought must have been lovely well polished wood, warm deep colours and with a fire burning in the grate it would have been a cosy room. Now it was dull, grey, cold. There was a feeling of death in the air. She went first to the dressing table and noted what Jack had told her about where a ring may have sat. Nothing else had been disturbed but she knew that Jack’s men would search every nook and cranny to identify the women, any links to their families, and to find why this happened. She turned to the bed.  
“You don’t have to ...” Jack still hoped she would heed his warning.  
“I do,” she whispered, “I do, Jack ... what ... what did he take from her?” she stepped over to him and he took her hand.  
“Her heart. Ready?” he took hold of the covers hiding the body.  
She nodded, as prepared as she could be.  
He lifted the cover slowly, until she could see the mummified body. Cheeks sunken, eyes closed, hair gone. The shift nightgown she had been wearing was opened to the waist and a hole where her heart had been removed gaped dark and empty.  
She had told herself she would be fine, she wouldn’t be sick or cry, but tears sprang to her eyes, her throat felt constricted – she couldn’t breathe – she had to get out. Jack felt her hand leave his and she started to run out of the room. He dropped the cover and followed her, catching her before she fell down the stairs, and supported her out of the building and to the steps at the front.

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Outside he sat her down on a low wall, his arm round her and waited until she could look at him.  
“Her heart, he took her heart,” she hiccupped, “oh Jack ...” finally the tears started and ran unchecked down her cheeks. He pulled her close and let her soak his jacket. He didn’t try to soothe her, words would not help, he knew that, he just rubbed her arm and let her cry. He would wait until she was ready to continue then he would drive her home and leave her to Dot’s tender care.  
As they sat there his officers began to appear. Hugh directed them to the rooms upstairs and down.   
“Jack,” Phryne looked up at him, “sorry.”  
“No need,” he smiled and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.  
“The solar model,” she continued, “you said that will tell you when this all happened?”  
He nodded.  
“And the four plants, what are they for?”  
“I don’t know, but then I haven’t looked closely, yet,” he admitted.  
“Can we?”  
“Phryne, really?” he raised his eyebrows.  
“Yes, I’m alright ... now.” She stood up but Jack thought she looked terribly pale. “I know, you’re going to say it can wait, it’s waited twenty years ...”  
“Well,” he tipped his head.  
“We’re here now, I don’t intend to come back, do you?”  
“Not unless I absolutely have to,” he agreed. He stood and offered her his arm and, as she took a deep breath of fresh air, they headed back into the hall.  
“Sir?” Hugh frowned.  
“We want to look at the Solar model, Collins,” he noticed his constable stare momentarily at the tear stains on his jacket, “then I shall take Miss Fisher home.”  
“Sir,” Hugh stepped aside wondering if he really had taken Miss Fisher up to the bedrooms.

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“So,” Jack hummed, “these are the planets, earth is at the centre then we have the moon, Mercury, then Venus, the sun, Mars ...” he pointed to each planetary body as he named them until Phryne stopped him.  
“Jack, look,” she pointed to the moon and the sun and drew a line with her finger to the earth. “Wouldn’t the moon be blocking the sun, wouldn’t this be an eclipse?”  
He looked again, then bent down and looked through the model and blinked - she was right – this happened at the last eclipse, but when was that?  
He wrote in his notebook that they needed to find that date, that would give them the date of the deaths, it may lead them to understanding the religion or cult that this was linked to, and therefore to the leader.  
Phryne stood up at touched one of the plants, it crumbled under her fingers, even the soil in the pots was dust. Jack looked at another, noting the shape of the leaves and the flower.  
“Hm,” he scowled, “peace lily, I think, spathiphyllum ...”  
Phryne huffed, trust him to know the genus.  
“No hope for these,” he continued, “shame, they’re a nice house plant and easy to keep.”  
“Even easy to keep plants need water, Jack,” she dusted her hands off, “are these at the compass points?”  
“I think so,” he looked up, imagining the orientation of the bedrooms above, “yes ...”  
Phryne picked up the one that had fallen to dust at her touch and tipped out the dust. As she did, a small bag, oiled canvas, fell to the ground.  
“Don’t touch,” Jack jumped forward, “I’m pretty sure I know what these hold.”  
Phryne gasped and stepped back. “I’ll wait outside,” she marched past him, holding her composure.

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Outside she found a discrete corner and vomited. A hand reached round her with the bottle of water she habitually carried in the car.  
“Drink, slowly,” Jack instructed her. “Rinse out your mouth.”  
She spat a mouthful of water out and closed the bottle.  
“He mutilated them,” she muttered, “murdered, mutilated and then kills himself. Why?”  
“Some kind of religion,” Jack shrugged, “perhaps a way to a glorious afterlife? Who knows what goes through the heads of people like this?”  
“I don’t think I could believe in a God who advocates this entry fee,” she turned round, “take me home Jack, please.” She handed him the keys of the Hispano Suiza, “I don’t feel like driving.”

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The drive back to Wardlow was silent. Phryne sat slightly forward, her hands twisting a handkerchief and her jaw clenched. Her colour hadn’t come back, she was still very pale; ordinarily he would have suggested Dot or Mr Butler call Mac, but she would be doing the autopsies. Maybe she would come over later and be the comfort Phryne needed – she knew her better than anyone else. He pulled up outside the house and waited a few seconds before getting out and going round to open the door for her.  
“Phryne,” he murmured, “Miss Fisher, we’re home.” He reached in and took her hand, “out we get.”  
“Hm? Oh, yes,” she looked at him and blinked through tear-filled eyes, “thank you, Jack.”  
“My pleasure,” he smiled, “lets’ get you in to Dot, she’ll take care of you, while I go and put this case together.”  
“Paperwork?”  
He nodded.  
“Oh,” she stopped, “you will let Ned out, won’t you?”  
“Of course, but I might caution him against running round with Col Richards,” he tucked her hand through the crook of his elbow glad she was beginning to process everything.  
“Come to dinner, tonight, Jack.”  
“It’s kind of you, Phryne, but ...”  
“Please, I would appreciate your company.”  
And he could see how she was coping. He couldn’t deny that a good meal would go a way to restoring his soul, as well.  
“Alright, but if you want me to leave, at any time, just say so – you’ve had a heck of a day.”  
“It’s not been fun for you, either,” she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.  
“No, my job seldom is, Phryne,” he took her keys and let her into her house.  
“Miss!” Dot came through from the dining room, “oh ...” she noticed how pale her mistress looked.  
“Not a pleasant day, Miss Williams,” Jack sighed, “Miss Fisher will need your tender care for the rest of the day.”  
“Right,” she took Phryne’s arm, “how about a nice soothing bath, Miss?”  
“Thank you, Dot, and will you tell Mr Butler the Inspector will be joining me for dinner, tonight.”  
“Oh, right,” she looked at Jack who just nodded slightly, “come on, Miss,” she chivvied her up the stairs.  
Jack sighed and put the car keys on the coat stand, preparing to take the tram back to City South.  
“Take the Hispano, Jack,” Phryne called from somewhere higher up.  
It would be easier than the tram, but a little ostentatious outside the station, he thought.  
“Perhaps, Inspector,” Mr Butler materialised at his side, “if I were to drive you?”  
“I think, Mr Butler, if you can be spared, that would be better.” He passed the keys to the older man, “thank you.”

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As he left the car, Jack turned to Mr Butler, who thought he looked a little strained, worried.  
“Mr Butler, I should be obliged if you would telephone me if Miss Fisher seems not in the best frame of mind for guests, tonight. I shan’t hold it against her.”  
“I understand, Inspector, but I think Miss Fisher will probably need you, at least for a while, if she has seen her mother’s body.” Mr Butler nodded politely.  
“Ah, so she told you what she was planning?” Jack took his hat of and threaded the brim through his fingers.  
“She did, sir.”  
“Well, it was probably one of the worst things I have had to show a relative, ever. The bodies were dried out, desiccated, and each had an organ removed – the Baroness had her heart removed. Miss Fisher has seen and is understandably distressed.”  
“Quite, as she would be, sir. Dinner will be at seven-thirty, sir.”  
Jack took this to mean he was to turn up regardless of his sympathies. He lifted his hat in semi salute and headed into the station. Mr Butler drove off thinking of comforting dishes he could serve that evening.

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Jack spent the rest of the day going over the evidence the officers had removed from the house, and were still removing. There were more shift-like garments in the ladies wardrobes, robes and shawls. Small medicine bottles from the study, each labelled with a compass point, were sent to Dr Macmillan to see if she could ascertain what the ladies were given. Papers, notebooks, drawings and schematics were also removed from the study, the notations of star charts, ancient gods of the known world but he couldn’t find any that would require such sacrifices. The star charts, however, did give him the date the five occupants of the house died – September 21st, 1922, seven years – they had been dead seven years, so for eleven years the ladies had been living, or captive, in that house and nobody had suspected a thing. He ran his hands through his hair and wondered how the hell he was going to tell Phryne. He checked his watch, an hour before he had to be at Phryne’s and he could do with a quick wash and change of shirt, at least. Jack pulled one of the several notebooks over, he may get through one, at least. The constables had found a shelf with notebooks carefully ordered and they seemed to contain the daily lives of himself and the ladies. Flicking through the pages of the first diary he found nothing of import to show that murder or sacrifice was uppermost in his mind – and who was he, there was nothing to say who he was. He always referred to himself as ‘I’ and there was no signature, no evidence of bank accounts no apparent way to name him. It was just the day to day running of the house.

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Phryne was a little more subdued over dinner than was usual, but that was to be expected. Mr Butler had prepared a chicken casserole, creamed potatoes and vegetables, followed by a peach cobbler and cream. Phryne ate less than usual but she did eat.  
“Have you heard from Mac?” she pushed her dish aside and took a sip of wine.  
“Not yet,” he sat back in his chair as Mr Butler started to remove the plates, “I expect she will want to give the report when she has all the answers. We found little medicine bottles in the study, all labelled for each room, I sent those to her for analysis.”  
“Do you think he may have been drugging them?” she frowned.  
“Possibly, but perhaps something to inhibit memory, his diary, the first one I have looked at details the day to day running of the house and what they did, like reading or listening to one play the piano – East – did your mother play?”  
“Once upon a time,” she twirled her glass in thought, “if we were over at Aunt P’s ... Janey plays the piano.”  
“Does she?”  
Phryne nodded, “She and her husband play three-handers – Teddy lost an arm during the war.”  
“I see.”  
“Shall we go into the parlour?”

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“How are you?” he asked as they sat in their usual places.  
“I don’t know,” she sighed, “numb, hurt, relieved I now know where and how. I wish I understood, though, why he would do such a thing.”  
“Phryne, I don’t think we will ever really understand why. I can’t find any religion that advocates this kind of sacrifice.”   
“How do I tell them, Janey and Aunt Prudence?”  
“I’ll do it,” he reached for her hand, “but only that we have found her and when we can hand over the body for burial. They don’t need the details ...”  
“Did you find her heart?”  
He nodded, “The other plants had the removed organs in, they will be placed back into the bodies for burial. The other families will be informed tomorrow, though we can’t say which is which. We only know your mother, and that is circumstantial, you understand.”  
She shook her head, “No, that was mother.”  
“You can’t be sure,” he insisted, though it would be easier to just agree.  
“Did you notice the earlobe? No you wouldn’t; mother’s left earlobe was only half what it should be, an earring got torn out during a particular fight with father. She claimed she caught it with her comb but I knew ...” she scowled, “I knew they’d had a fight while we were at school ‘cos father was out at the pub and came back roaring drunk - again.”  
“Right, well if there are other distinguished features of each of the missing women we shall be able to hand the bodies back to the right family.”  
“If not?”  
“General description of height and build, it’s about all we have.”  
They sat in silence for a while, Phryne staring into the fire but still holding onto Jack’s hand.  
“Did you let Ned go?” she shook herself out of her reverie.  
“Yes, told him to stop running with Col otherwise it might be him under a hedge next time. He won’t.” He shrugged.  
“It’s the life they know, Jack, and what else do they have? If father hadn’t got the title that could have been me, no matter that Miss Charlesworth said I had more potential than being a maid in a big house.”  
“It would have stifled you, a life at the beck and call of others,” he mused, “it wouldn’t have mattered if your mistress had been kind, like you. If you have been in service to a cruel mistress you would either have left or done something rash. You are too much of a free spirit for that, and your compassion for others is quite amazing – who else would take in a maid who had been questioned about a murder, or a street kid who stole for someone else? I don’t know of anyone else with that big a heart.”  
“Thank you, Jack, for your faith in me,” she murmured.  
He finished his drink and stood up, “I should go, you must be tired.”  
“Don’t, please, not yet,” she stood up and stepped in front of him. “I know you have a busy day tomorrow, but, just a little longer.” She looked down, ashamed of her perceived weakness but she didn’t want to be alone, not just yet.  
“It’s ok,” he put his fingertips under her chin and tipped her face up, “it’s ok to be sad, to want company – I’ll stay, for however long you want me to, tonight. We can talk, if you want, or listen to some music ...”  
“What would you like to talk about?” she pulled him down onto the chaise.  
“You could tell me about your mother, what was she like? Then I could tell you about mine, if you like,” he smiled.  
So Phryne told him about her mother, she chose the happy stories, the time when they laughed and played, good times when a few pennies were found for a treat; and Jack told her about his mother and his family, his cycling trips out of the city or into the wilds of Collingwood, his learning to bake the biscuits she was so fond of, his sister and the games they used to play, sunny days in the garden until she was too tired to keep her eyes open.  
“Come on, Miss Fisher,” he stood up and held out his hand for her, “time to call it a day. You need some sleep.”  
She took his hand and let him pull her up. They walked into the hall and she kissed his cheek.  
“Thank you, Jack,” she smiled softly, “for everything, but most of all for being here.”  
“My pleasure, Miss Fisher,” he bent and kissed her as lightly as a breeze on her lips. “Sleep well, and, if you want to stay involved, I will be in my office as usual.”  
“Good night, Inspector,” she watched him head down the path then locked the door and headed to bed.

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It had been extraordinarily kind of Jack, she thought, to let her join him in reading the diaries and putting together the case. Badger’s case was considered closed, though Jack had brought Col Richards in and told him to do his own dirty work in future, but if he was caught the Inspector would have no hesitation in prosecuting him to the full letter of the law.  
“Badger died because you are too lazy to do your own work,” Jack warned, “you think you can run a gang, but a leader should always be ready to do the same thing as his men. I suggest, Col, you find some gainful employment instead of pretending to be something you aren’t.”

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England, 6 weeks later:

Teddy held his wife with his one arm and let her cry. Sobs racked Janey’s body and she crumpled the letter from her sister that told her of her mother’s last years. Phryne had tried to be kind, had put onto paper the words that Jack had used to inform Mrs Stanley that they had found her sister and she could finally lay her to rest. But it didn’t stop the pain Janey felt.  
“We’ll go over, love,” Teddy whispered into her hair, “we were going to anyway. We’ll go and see Phryne and your aunt, see where your ma is buried.”  
“Yes, please, Teddy,” she sniffed, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised but it is the way she died, it’s horrible, how could anyone think this was the way to appease a God. It’s not a God I believe in, that isn’t just and merciful.”  
“No love, it isn’t,” he agreed, “how about you write back to Phryne, eh? Tell her we are preparing to fill her house with children ...”  
“I don’t know if she has the room for all of us, Teddy, maybe we should book into the Windsor or maybe we can stay with Aunt Prudence, she has a huge house,” she smiled through her tears.  
“Whatever you think best,” he agreed.

Over in Somerset Henry had also received a letter from his eldest child.  
“It would never have happened if I had been a better husband,” he sat with a whisky in the parlour with Abigail. She knew he had a temper, not that she had to endure it, but she remembered the time he had hit Phryne for using bad language at school and she couldn’t deny he was probably right. But, he wasn’t that man anymore.  
“Henry, dear,” she wasn’t sure what to say, “I’m sorry for this. I know, I understand things would have been very different if you had, as you say, been a better husband, but you weren’t and things have turned out the way they have. I love you, I couldn’t have met a better man and we have Bertie. Phryne doesn’t blame you in her letter, she says it was a man who had a strange idea to appease whichever god he worshipped. At least two of the ladies went missing during the day, who’s to say he wouldn’t have found Margaret while she was shopping, or out for a walk. Please don’t blame yourself. She has suggested we go over, you can see where she is buried, take some flowers ...”  
“Right,” he sat up, “I suppose that would be a good idea. It would be nice to see Phryne, meet this copper who has been quite relentless – so she says.”  
“She seems quite taken with him, Henry,” Abigail smiled, “though settling down isn’t quite what I imagine her doing.”  
“Not as a copper’s wife, that’s for sure,” he smiled, “thank you, Abby, I did love Margaret, but I do love you.”  
“I love you too, you silly man,” she kissed the top of his head, “now, I am going to see how much of a nuisance Bertie is being in the kitchen.”  
“He spends a lot of time in there, love,” Henry frowned, wondering if the heir to the title should spend quite so much of his free time with the cook.  
“Nothing wrong with him being able to cook, dear,” she tutted, “he does well with his letters and numbers ...”  
“... we could get a governess, love,” he interrupted.  
“Oh,” she put her hands on her hips, “am I not good enough to educate our son before you send him off to whatever school you deem a boy should go to. I thought we agreed he would go to the village school at first, then maybe one of the nearby schools.”  
“You know best, dear,” he grinned, he loved teasing her about sending their son to a tough military academy when he was eleven.  
“I do,” she laughed. “Well, shall we book passage to Australia, then?”  
“Are you alright to travel?” he placed his hand on the curve of her belly, now showing there was another Fisher child on the way. “Have you told Phryne you are with child, again?”  
“No, you know I was waiting, just a little while longer, but the doctor says I am fit as a fiddle and there is no reason for me to stop doing anything, except riding, of course.” She put her hand over his, nobody but the two of them knew she had lost a baby when Bertie was nearly two.  
“Please check with him first,” he tried to sound masterful, but he knew it was lost on her.  
“I will, so, passage to Australia, best tell Phryne by telegram,” she shrugged, “a letter will get there after us. Where shall we stay?”  
“Ask her to book us into a hotel that doesn’t mind children in their kitchens,” he laughed.


End file.
